


Contraptions

by kimbureh



Series: Breaking Twigs [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Masturbation, Morning Sex, Nuclear Warfare, POV Alternating, Post-Blind Betrayal, Regret, Safewords, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Synth Imposter, Trust Issues, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, spoilers for the late game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23229187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbureh/pseuds/kimbureh
Summary: There is a shadow following Deacon. It feels like his guilt is finally creeping up on him, but it turns out to be a stranger with a black leather coat and an Institute rifle. Short of friends and allies, Deacon finds himself relying on the stranger way more than he's comfortable with.-You should be able to follow this even if you haven't read the other parts of the fic. Contains several short-ish smut scenes that are mostly angsty and not very sexy (by design). I'll add tags accordingly. The first chapter focuses mainly on Danse, after that it's all X6/Deeks
Relationships: Deacon/X6-88, Paladin Danse/Preston Garvey
Series: Breaking Twigs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1248188
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A brief summary of the events so far (optional):  
> After Blind Betrayal, the strange friendship with Deacon keeps Danse going. In a battle to defend the Railroad HQ, Danse finds himself forced to kill Brotherhood soldiers, while Deacon sustains an injury that permanently numbs the feeling in his right arm. Not able to overcome his distrust when Danse returns miraculously without a memory wipe after being recalled by the Institute, Deacon abandons his friend.

The sun is shining in a deep golden light where the moon used to be a couple hours ago. It reminds Deacon of the intimacy they shared last night, the hurt he caused. The unbearable vulnerability of both men and synths.

“I want to try something.” X6 closes in, reaching out to hold Deacon’s face. The world turns upside down when the Courser kisses Deacon’s lips, and it turns again when the spy kisses him back.

Then, the world turns once more. Irrevocably.

On the horizon, far far in the distance, an atomic cloud pierces further and further into the sky as if it wanted to swallow the whole world.

And then it does.

  
  


\---

  
  


Two months earlier.

  
  
  


Danse wakes with limbs as heavy as lead. Once more, the other side of the bed is already cold. Once more, sitting up punishes him with a throbbing head and nausea in his stomach. He picks up some clothes from the floor, almost forgets to holster his laser pistol, and steps out into the courtyard.

Sunlight, voices, smells, the Castle’s vibrant life hits him. On the other side of the court Ronnie Shaw is walking down a line of people. Right, Preston said new recruits were coming. They look scruffy, but seem eager. Danse remembers how excited he was when he first enlisted way back then.

“You there!” A voice yells. “You served with the military! I’m sure you can drill some discipline into these green recruits.” It takes a while before Danse realizes Ronnie Shaw is talking to him. “Show ‘em how the Brotherhood whips their knights into shape, do me that favor.”

Danse looks at her, then at the recruits. One of them shoots him a crooked smile, another lifts an eyebrow. It makes Danse’s blood boil. He’s a joke to them, he’s useless, he’s-- he notices Ronnie still staring at him.

“Well,” he says and straightens his posture, “I’m not officially a Minuteman, but it is true that I have quite some experience in drilling troops.”

“You were with the Brotherhood, right?” One of the recruits interjects.

“You defected?”

“Why did you leave?”

“Enough!” Danse cuts them short. “Everyone ten laps around the court, the last three of you run an extra five!”

None of them moves. Everyone waits for Ronnie Shaw to goad them on. Danse can feel her eyes examining him. “Alright,” she starts, “tell me why the heck you aren’t one of us yet.”

“I…” he clears his throat. “I don’t think it would be appropriate to join the ranks with me being…, since Preston Garvey and I having the relationship that we have.”

“What, you’re worried about decorum?” She scoffs. “Unbelievable. You don’t have any official rank, yet you’re effectively the second-in-command. Don’t you think that’s far more inappropriate than having a liaison with our General, kid?”

-

At evening meal, Danse pokes his food until the mess hall is almost devoid of people. He’s about to get up when one of the recruits from the drill earlier approaches him with a bottle and two shot glasses.

“Wanna drink with me, boss?” It’s the one with the crooked smile, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.

“I really shouldn’t.” Is what Danse says, but doesn’t find himself rejecting the glass filled with sweet fragrant liquor. 

“To the Minutemen!” The recruit toasts, and Danse takes in the man’s features besides the gnawing smirk. A broad angular jaw and cheeks, a nose just the same.

He looks a lot like Knight Rhys.

They drink one shot after another, the recruit’s name slips right out of Danse’s mind, they talk about banalities, the other man doing most of the entertaining himself. While the glasses keep getting refilled, all Danse can think about is how abominable his crimes must have been for the world to punish him with the Brotherhood haunting him even here in the Castle where he’s trying to build a new life.

“S’is crazy,” the recruit’s words are but a thick accented slur, “everyone’s talking ‘bout negotiations with the Brotherhood.” “You were a brotha once, whatcha think about it? I say they can’nod be trusted. I mean,  _ you _ left, right?”

It’s the story he has told the Minutemen, the story of him leaving the Brotherhood over ‘ideological differences’. Danse hates the lie, but hates the truth even more. “Yeah.” He nods and downs another shot.

-

His steps are wavy when Danse finds his way down the hall. Not bothering to turn on the light, he loses his clothes on the way over to the bed and flops down next to a quite startled Preston.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Danse regrets his inconsideration, “I didn’t expect you to be in bed already.”

“You didn’t expect…? Do you know how late it is?” Preston’s lips offer a sleepy kiss. “You smell of alcohol.”

“I’m sorry. I drank with one of the new recruits.”

“No… I’m happy you’re making new friends.” Preston slings an arm around his lover and returns to breathing evenly soon after.

“Yeah.” Danse whispers into the dark. “Friends.”

-

The next day, Ronnie is delighted when Danse asks her to let him permanently take over the drill of the new recruits. Scribe Haylen once told him he had a talent for that, and he’ll be damned if he insults her by letting that talent go to waste. Even if he feels useless, he doesn’t have to be. Slipping back into the mentor role comes so easily, for a moment it feels like he’s a Paladin again, dutiful and respected. As a Minuteman, he could work himself up the ranks and become a man of worth once more.

If there just wasn’t that recruit with the Brotherhood face. Unfocused and inept, however, the looks are where any resemblance with Danse’s former subordinate stops. The recruit lacks the edge, the will, the unique drive that make Knight Rhys an invaluable soldier on the field.

Knight Rhys would kill Danse without hesitation.

When it’s time for night meal, the way down to the mess hall is long and Danse is short on sleep, and so he goes to the General’s quarters right away. When he enters, the cupboard catches his eye. Preston keeps water and some snacks there, also drinks and the one or the other good drop. It feels shameful to drink alone, but Danse has done good work all day, a few sips of bourbon for better sleep are just what he needs to function again.

He startles to an inappropriate amount when the heavy doors open and Preston pokes his head inside. “Ah! There you are.” His face lights up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Trying to sleep early.”

“I heard you’re helping out Ronnie Shaw. Thank you, no one else would even get near her.” His chuckle is as soft as his kiss on Danse’s lips. “I’d love to stay, but traders from Bunker Hill travelled all the way down here for a meeting. I’m dying to get out of this heavy thing though.” He says and takes off his coat while Danse helps him with the buckles of the armor.

Danse’s hands linger on Preston’s body, his form without the protective layer smooth and warm.

“Thank you. It’s a shame I have to go. We spend so little time together lately…”

“Go, do good.” Danse manages a mild joke and helps Preston back into the overcoat that marks him as General.

“I’ll do what I can, babe.” Preston says, then nods at the bottle in front of the cabinet. “Don’t make it a habit.”

“I won’t.”

With an apologetic smile on his face, the General turns to leave.

“Preston.”

He looks back after hearing his name.

“Why are you so patient?” Danse asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I stay up late, I sleep until noon, I stopped being useful--”

“What are you talking about? You do enough. It’s okay.” Preston lightly touches Danse’s arm.

“No, it’s not.” He brushes away Preston’s hand, then gently takes it. “I need you to expect more from me. I need you to remind me that I can do more. I could’ve taken over the drill weeks ago.”

“Danse.” A soft voice whispers. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s alright to take your time.”

“I don’t think you understand... how much I hate your patience with me.” His words shake as much as his body, but when Preston embraces him, his world grows calm again for just a moment. “I want to join you,” Danse’s voice is but a husk, “become a Minuteman. Be worthy of you.”

Preston holds him tighter. “You are worthy.” He says, his voice pressed. “You are so worthy. And we’ll make you a Minuteman if that’s what you want.”

Danse clings to him, feels his heartbeat through the fabric, chest to chest against each other. “How do I deserve you?”

“Danse, I know you don’t believe it sometimes. But you are an amazing person. How else could I love you like I do, babe?”

Danse can’t help but smile at the nickname. “You’re absolutely right, General.”

“Yeah, listen to your superior.” They both chuckle lightly, it’s like the stress is finally rolling off of them. “Will you be alright?”

Danse takes a deep breath and composes himself. “I will. But promise me we’ll discuss again the planned treaty with the Brotherhood.”

“Oho, so quickly back to politics.” Preston lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Yeah sure, we should do that.”

“Let’s talk tomorrow.” Danse says with a small but genuine smile. “Don’t let them wait.”

-

The next morning, Danse wakes from the sunlight peeking through the narrow windows, and again, he reaches over with a heavy limb to find the bed beside him cold and empty.

Except it isn’t.

There’s warmth and softness, and a half asleep Preston snuggling into his arms. Danse kisses his lover’s head, gently waking him up. Preston mumbles and begins to scatter kisses along Danse’s neck, nibbling on the soft skin there. Danse’s chuckle sends a tremble through Preston lying atop of his chest.

From one moment to the next, all sleepiness is gone, and Danse finds himself straddled by Preston. Eager hands roam around, kneading Danse’s strong arm muscles, pawing the wide rounded chest and ruffling the hair there.

“Look who’s awake-” Danse says before he can only gasp in surprise when Preston commences a riding motion, grinding his crotch at Danse’s. The smile of Preston is so sweet and needy, Danse loses himself in the sight of it. He grabs Preston by the hips and joins his motions without a second thought. Preston leans down for a deep kiss that is answered with great eagerness.

They get rid of their boxer shorts, Preston using the chance to grab everything he needs to get things started. Back in a straddling position, his hips hover above Danse’s, busy working on himself to make what’s to come as enjoyable as possible. Danse can’t avert his eyes from this beautiful face glowing more and more with anticipation. Finally, those seductive hips lower themselves onto Danse, who’s welcoming the hot sweet pressure all around him with a groan. They move, testing at first, then hungrily. Danse can’t keep his hands onto himself, with a strong grip keeping in place what causes him such pleasure. Overcome by the sensation, Preston helplessly yelps, biting the heel of his hand to prevent any more sounds from escaping. Danse moans in disapproval, frees Preston’s mouth of the barrier and reaps more sweet sounds that push him over the edge. Danse’s motions drag Preston with them, making him blissfully collapse on his partner who is all giggly from the high he was just pushed into.

“Good morning.” Preston says kissing Danse’s sweaty forehead.

“Indeed.” Danse smiles.

-

Soon enough, routine calls both of them.

Just as they are about to leave their quarters for their daily duties, there is frantic knocking at the door, agitated voices from further down the hall.

Cause of the commotion: A radio message, cold, monotone, and crystal clear:

“People of the Commonwealth.

For years now, you have suspected that the Institute still exists, that we are among you. It is true, but it is not the whole truth.

We are the future.

Our superior technology represents the future of the Commonwealth. Today, we activate our nuclear reactor, ensuring that we will persevere long after the world above ground has ceased to exist. Ensuring that mankind has a future.

We have no desire to interfere in the unimportant details of your daily lives. We simply ask that you do not interfere with Institute operations. To do so would result in dire consequences.

You may rest easy. Know that the future is in safe hands, that mankind will thrive under our guidance.

People of the Commonwealth---”

The message repeats, over and over again. More and more people are crowding at the radio transmitter, listening.

The Institute.

They’re a threat.

And they’re more powerful than ever.

It’s not until Preston shakes Danse’s shoulder for him to snap back to reality that he feels the cold sweat running down his temple.

“General, tell us what to do!” The voices around them plead.

Preston searches Danse’s face. “You still want to do this?”

Like on autopilot, Danse nods. There’s no other option.

Preston returns the nod sternly. “Send another message to the Prydwen!” The General orders, “I have a hunch the Brotherhood might be interested in our help now.”

  
  


\---

  
  
  
  


Preston knows desperation when he sees it, even if it’s hidden behind a hundredweight of alloyed metal. Two fully armed Brotherhood knights in power armor pick up Preston and his small team for diplomatic talks at the Prydwen.

Even the term ‘small’ is an exaggeration for this delegation. Preston’s face shows nothing of the worry, no, sheer terror he feels when studying his sole companion. Concealed under alien-like shapes of a sturdy helmet is Danse, former Paladin Danse, his friend, his love, his life, the man who was forced vowing never to cross paths with the Brotherhood again. 

Not the slightest hint gives away Preston’s exhaustion over the debations they had. The pros and cons of Danse leaving or staying. Preston didn’t want to hear it. Ordered Danse to stay put in the Castle. He just pointed out he’s not a Minuteman yet.

The two Brotherhood knights escort them to a vertibird right outside of the Castle.

Much like every other Commonwealther, Preston has never travelled by air. It’s typical for the Brotherhood to demand talks take place in their fortress of an airship. The flight there may weaken the opposing party.

They board and the vertibird hoists itself up in the air with surprising force compared to how elegant these machines seem from below. Danse offers a strong metal arm Preston declines in favor of holding onto a handle. Danse is already doing enough, there’s no need to worry him over something as silly as motion sickness. If Danse can brave himself through this, Preston can too.

It’s a quick flight over to the impressive Brotherhood vessel, their headquarters over at Boston Airport. A route that takes a day or two by foot melts down to less than an hour by air. The glistening ocean in front of them, the coastline behind them. Preston finds no appreciation for it. the first time being so high above the Commonwealth, he feels like his heart couldn’t sink any deeper.

Danse insisted on wearing the rare X-01 power armor, polished and proudly sporting the Minutemen colors. It’s the very same suit Danse wore during a close encounter with Knight Rhys. Only the disguise of the helmet and Preston’s diplomacy skills saved him back then. Danse said it is worth taking the risk, said that the Minutemen have to prove their worth as an ally by demonstrating their strength. Anybody trained could accompany Preston on this. But Danse insisted it to be him.

It’s done now anyway. All Preston can do now is trust Danse and his unique insights into the Brotherhood, trust that he knows the leading staff on the Prydwen like no other and can read their intentions.

Trust.

That’s what General Garvey intends to offer the Brotherhood.

  
  
  


A man of impeccable posture awaits them up on the landing dock. Captain Kells. “Welcome,” he speaks with militaristic precision, “We don’t usually allow visitors on the Prydwen. I hope you appreciate the courtesy we bestow to you, Preston Garvey of the Minutemen.”

“General Garvey.”

The chin of Captain Kells twitches slightly before straightening himself up again. “Very well, General Garvey. This way, please.” He ushers them down the dock. “I hope you will understand that we need to confiscate all your weapons while you’re aboard. Of course they will be returned to you when you leave.”

Danse advised to take a medium number of high quality gear with them just for that reason. This is a show of teeth, this is diplomacy. 

“What’s in there.” Kells points at a small bag dangling on the hip of Danse’s power armor. Danse turns to Preston, who answers with a small practiced nod, for Danse to hand over the clattering bag. Just as calculated, Kells’s eyes grow wide when he looks inside and seems speechless for a second. 

The fangs of diplomacy.

The Captain returns the bag and signals two Knights to escort them. Inside the vessel, they are made to wait in a dimly lit room without windows. Another exhaustion tactic that can only mean the Brotherhood finally begins to take the Minutemen seriously.

When they are ushered into the commando room, they are blinded by the natural light flooding in through the giant glass front of the bow, a single human figure outlined against it.

“The weather is about to change.” The Elder talks with his back turned to them. “Tomorrow there will be yet another irradiated storm ravaging these forsaken lands. It is time for humanity to use the technologies in our hands for the progress of our species instead of creating perverted monstrosities. Wouldn’t you agree, General?” Elder Maxson turns to face them with a stern look.

“In the end,” Preston speaks up, “it is humanity’s ability to band together that makes us persist to this day, Elder.”

“I am pleased you recognize the value of unity, General. However, I must wonder about one thing.” The Elder approaches, eyeing the X-01 power armor. “If you don’t understand technology to be the path to salvation, how curious of you to accumulate technological artefacts.” He circles them, coming to a stop in Preston’s blind spot behind the X-01.

“The Minutemen don’t disregard technology.” Preston replies, forced to take a step in order to see the Elder’s face again, now hyper aware of the guards in heavy gear at the door. “In fact, we came here today to talk about technology. And the sharing of it.”

“So is that why you’re here?” The Elder completes the circle and returns to where he stood before. “You want to get your hands on Brotherhood technology, is that why you’re here?” His voice almost sounds disgusted.

“On the contrary.” Preston’s chest is rising. “We are here to make you an offer. To seek your trust and cooperation against our common enemy.”

The Elder narrows his eyes. “What is it you propose?”

  
  
  


\---

  
  
  


The plan is simple. The Minutemen are willing to share the location of enough nuclear warheads to bomb the Institute into oblivion several times. To do just that, air support to salvage these warheads is needed. The remaining bombs are to be permanently sealed on site for safekeeping.

“Tell me, General, why shouldn’t we acquire these weapons ourselves and nuke the Institute in your place? Our technology is far superior to your laughable artillery that hardly takes any aim.” Maxson is overbearing and he must know it-- he must know from the reports of his Scribes that the Castle’s artillery is not to be underestimated despite its old world mechanism.

“We are the Commonwealth, Elder. The people are standing behind the Minutemen. It would be unnecessary to incite further conflict for a post-Institute era when a free Commonwealth is finally in close reach. I am sure you will agree that the support of the settlements is a resource the Brotherhood wouldn’t want to miss.”

“Your words of freedom ring true, General. Very well.” The Elder declares. ”I have decided to agree to your proposal. The Brotherhood of Steel will make the attack on the Institute a success. Furthermore, we expect an allocation of the remaining warheads once the deed is done.”

It’s not a surprising move from the Elder. “If that’s what it takes to earn the trust of the Brotherhood, so be it, Elder.”

Maxson nods, pleased. “Let’s drink to this favorable agreement.” He fetches three glasses and pours brandy in each of them. He gives one to Preston, and then turns to Danse, offering him a glass as well. “Your companion too. This is a historic moment.”

Danse doesn’t make a move to step out of his power armor. Instead, he takes the glass in his big bulky hand with a delicate motion and offers Arthur the small bag on his hip.

“What is this?” The Elder inquires.

”We figure this belongs to you.” Preston says in explanation. Danse watches Arthur weigh the small bag clattering with metal. Maybe he thinks it’s the world’s most pathetic bribe of a couple caps.

Danse can make out the exact moment when Arthur recognizes the bag’s contents. Just for a split second, he hesitates.

“They all got a proper funeral.” Preston explains.

Maxson nods, his eyes still focused on the bag’s contents. “I appreciate it. You may leave now. Proctor Ingram will be in contact with you.” A simple wave of the hand and two Knights escort the Minutemen out of the room.

Danse can only imagine what goes through Arthur’s mind right now. He must have noticed how carefully polished those twenty-four Brotherhood holotags are. Twenty-four long-lost holotags, twenty-four shiny pieces of metal of great sorrow for the Brotherhood.

Only one holotag stands out. The twenty-fifth tag, not belonging to any of the four squads that lost their lives in the catacombs of the Old North Church, but representing a soldier reduced to a piece of metal all the same.

Holotag registration DN-407P, Paladin Danse, is dull and unpolished.

-

Back at the Castle, it takes Preston to pull him into a tight embrace for Danse to finally feel a weight being taken from him far heavier than the suit of power armor he is stepping out of. 

They took a gamble and won, it seems.

“He wanted to keep the warheads, like we expected.” Danse tries to regain his focus. “That was a close one, but it was our thoughtful gift that swayed his mind, I have no doubts about that.”

Preston catches Danse’s face with his hands, it slows his racing thoughts, the sensation of Preston’s forehead pressed against his grounding him. “How are you holding up?”

A shake of the head is all Danse can do in response. He does not want to think too hard about any of this. Focusing on facts is easier. “He sent us to Proctor Ingram. That’s a good sign. She is efficient as hell and hates playing Arthur’s games. He would have sent us to Teagan if he intended to doublecross us.”

“Unless he wants us to think just that?”

Danse falls silent. “I hope not.”

  
  
  


\---

  
  
  


That’s it, that’s more than enough. Deacon puts out the butt of his cigarette on the massive stone wall of the Castle he’s sitting on, feet dangling and watching black clouds pile up on the horizon while fishing for another smoke.

He had preferred if things hadn’t turned out this way, but it seems like the naive puppy and his lover boy have decided to play games with the Commonwealth’s fate.

Time to act.

Sneaking around the Castle at night is a child’s play. Even with heightened alertness since the unfortunate Institute radio broadcast, Deacon prides himself to sneak past the guards with only little use of his stealth boy. The thing he’s after is in the General’s quarters of all places; Preston sometimes wakes up at night, lately even more so. But the real problem is Danse’s light sleep and his habit to roam around during the night.

Except, this is exactly what Deacon is betting on.

It doesn’t take long for one wing of the heavy double door to open with surprising little sound. Seems like Danse picked up a few stealth skills while travelling with him back then, but not enough for him to notice Deacon slip in with his stealth boy turned to maximum.

Inside, he takes a moment to take in the room. Preston evenly breathing in the bed to the side, a few cabinets, and countless papers scattered on the conference table in the center. 

Bingo.

Before Deacon can reach out to collect the documents, it is as if a cool breeze was passing by his neck. He stops breathing and focuses on the dark around him.

He’s being watched.

Impossible. The door didn’t open, the windows definitely didn’t either, Preston remains unchanged in his breathing pattern, but who--

Barely discernible, there’s a painting on the wall. Some long gone Minutemen General, probably, sternly looking down.

Trite scopophobia.

He silently gathers all the papers and slides them into his bag.

_ Now for my last trick _ \-- he turns to open the door, still feeling a pair of eyes burning into his neck.

Get a grip, Deacon.

He pushes the door open, closes it behind him, noiselessly, he walks walks walks down the hall, only allowing himself to breathe again when he steps outside into the courtyard.

“Where to, recruit?”

The voice sends electricity down Deacon’s spine, but he’s trained to still act naturally.

“Jus’ gettin’ sum fresh air, Colonel Danse.” He slides into the accent effortlessly.

Danse sits on the stone steps up to the defensive walls, cocking his head in disbelief, eyes undoubtedly focused on the bag he’s carrying.

“I, uh, the truth is…” Deacon shoots him a crooked smile and stammers, “it’s embarrassin’, but I write when I can’ sleep. A journal, kinda, and, uh, poetry also.” He pats the bag, “I can show ya… if ya insist.”

Danse’s features soften in the dim moonlight. “No need to, recruit. Just make sure to get some sleep.”

“Will do… thanks.” Deacon keeps walking, sits down on a block of collapsed stone, acts like musing, journaling, until he can see Danse return to his quarters. There’s nobody else in the courtyard despite the guards on their posts, busy scanning the surroundings.

Still.

He can feel a pair of eyes focused on him.

It’s a feeling he can’t shake even after leaving, hiding his disguise and collecting his needed gear. It’s still there in the morning after a long, sleepless night of getting miles between him and the Castle.

Probably the guilt of stealing from people he almost considered friends.

Sifting through the documents in the morning sun, a lot of them turn out to be useless. There’s an outline of the Brotherhood’s plan to salvage the warheads in the Glowing Sea utilizing upgraded vertibirds. Several points of interest are marked on a map, but Deacon wouldn’t be surprised if some of the information was faulty by design. One key location he knows through his own intel is missing.

_ These bastards of shit _ .

A cold wind is picking up, calling for the warm woolen hat in his bag. It’s dusty and moth-eaten, and for a moment, Deacon misses his militia hat. He has to admit, the Minutemen at least value a good hat. 

No time to be idle though. Sleep can be rubbed out of a face. It’s still weird though, touching his face. The edges are sharper than what he usually aims for, looking less like a forgettable everyman and more like a person. Not his style.

At least he can finally wear his shades again.

Deacon sets southward to where the quagmires are deep and the fauna is deadly. By day, super mutants and raiders have to be dodged, by night all kinds of creatures with varying numbers of heads and teeth included in those heads roam the swamp. The occasional vertibird flying overhead no matter what time of the day poses the least of all concerns.

It’s been three nights, and Deacon is sure someone or something is following him.

It’s not a beast, unless he wanted to call his own guilty subconscious that, but he decides not to further dwell on that thought. It’s also no common raider or gun runner, his pursuer’s capability for stealth demonstrating far too much finesse. A subdued, yet very stubborn presence following his every step.

It’s been three days, and Deacon didn’t get a single second of sleep. The creeping cold and the constant state of alertness are persistently gnawing on him like... like a gnawing creature gnawing on something. A dog maybe, on a bone. Or whatever.

Gotta stay focused.

Gotta stay sharp.

He almost got caught stealing some supplies at a raider’s camp yesterday. 

By the fourth nightfall, Deacon rubs his face and relishes in the sensation of shutting his eyes.  _ Only a few more seconds _ … He reaches his first destination and promises to himself to shake whatever pursuer he has, find the safehouse nearby, barricade up in there and take the world’s finest nap ever napped.

The target is a pre-war lead processing plant. The Brotherhood of Lacking Lead has occupied it with the goal to use it for upgrading their Vertibirds. Some basic radiation protection seems like a great idea before taking a cruise into the fabulous Glowing Sea. Deacon’s plan is easy, a child’s play even a drunkard or a very sleep deprived Railroad agent can execute. Ideally. Slipping in for some good old sabotage on one or the other teeny tiny difficult to replace mechanical part, and slipping out again before the heavy Bros know what’s what.

Easy as pork, let’s do it.

The facility is gigantic and only partially put to use by the Brotherhood, but security is tight, as is expected with the Institute on the move. Nothing childish drunkard of the Railroad can’t do in a twinkle-di twinkling.

Inside the production hall, only one of the three assembly lines is working. Which makes everything so much easier. A few days from now the Brotherhood will try to fire up the other two, and, oops, they’ll break immediately. However, meddling with the line that’s already producing lead panels for superheavy birds poses a greater challenge. Hiding in a corner with a Stealth Boy at maximum, he examines the structure. If he can reach the scaffolding above and loosen a few bolts, it will eventually crash into the machinery beneath and hopefully do enough damage to occupy the Brotherhood for a few weeks. Deacon nicks a few tools before he’s headed to the ladder, up up up he goes.

Things go great until they don’t.

It all happens like in slow motion. Deacon blames his numb hand for twitching, but at this point, it could be anything, really. The sound of clattering metal, loud enough to cut through the production noises from down below, the godforsaken wrench has slipped out of Deacon’s hand.  _ This is it _ . Soldiers yell, laser shots are fired. Deacon throws himself into whatever scarce cover there is, but--  _ Wait a minute _ .

The soldiers are not shooting up, they are being shot at. In no time Deacon is on his feet again, loosening the ancient bolts. The rusty ventilation shaft finally gives up and buries the production line underneath. 

Fuelled with the adrenaline rush of having cheated death, the spy makes for the exit, gun fire still ignoring him. It’s a miracle. Using every trick from the book to cover his tracks, Deacon catches his breath far away under a ledge. Covered in cold sweat, but fulfilled with triumph, he heads further up to the old Railroad safehouse for his goddamn well deserved nap.

He hasn’t even reached the summit when he feels it again. An unknown gaze following him.

_ Impossible _ .

“Guess I should thank you.” Deacon speaks into the night. “They would have caught me if you hadn’t caused that pretty little diversion.” Ah dang, he forgot to do his accent. “Some awe inspiring misplaced shots you fired there, real art. You made them think it’s just some common raider with bad aim.” 

Silence.

Did the paranoia finally get to him? Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing but the sound of the wind picking up, letting Deacon shiver.

This is it. It finally happened to him, he’s losing his mind. No sleep, no friends, that’s enough to let him go insane. Carrington will be so smug about it. Desdemona will look at him with pity. Not that it matters. They won’t take him back should they find out what he’s doing.

Deacon sets for the old Railroad safehouse hidden somewhere atop the hill as if he had any right to use it. His sabotage violates explicit orders. Everyone in HQ is eager to see the Institute gone, even at the price of arming the Brotherhood with a fuckton of cute little nuclear toys and the risk of irradiating half of the Commonwealth anew. That damn radio message. Everyone is scared of what the Institute might do to their enemies.

But Deacon knows the lab coated asshats aren't as powerful as they claim to be; his gut instinct is telling him the Institute didn’t get their grabby hands on the endless energy source. Nora could attest to that if she hadn’t gone missing since then.

He knows it just like he knows there’s someone following him.

Dragging himself up the hill sucks the last bit of strength out of him. At the safehouse, he half-heartedly blocks the entrance with furniture and junk, just anything, and finally, finally allows himself to fall into that seductive softness of an actual bed.

He’s immediately welcomed by a deep, numbing sleep.

In the dizziness upon waking up, he feels disoriented, vaguely threatened-- he bolts up, fumbles for his pistol-- gone. Where, where is it? Did he lose it in yesterday’s exhaustion?

“It’s right here.”

A voice from the darkest corner of the room.

_ Hello afterlife _ .

“What do you want?” Deacon asks, surprised he manages to sound firm. “Are you some pervert who watches people in their sleep?”

A shadow breaks away from the surrounding darkness. A tall stranger, clad in thick black leather, reflective sunglasses-- in his hand loosely dangling Deacon’s pistol.

“These documents are useless.” The shadow says, stepping forward and effortlessly pulling Deacon up by his collar. “Tell me everything you know. If you leave out the smallest detail, I will know and then I will make you regret it.”

_ Breathe, Deacon, breathe _ .

“Talk.” The shadow demands.

“What do you wanna know?”

“The location yesterday wasn’t in the documents. Tell me what else you know.” 

From up close, Deacon can see his own face mirrored in the sunglasses. It’s as if the stranger’s face radiates cold instead of warmth, his chiselled deep umber cheekbones seem sunken, his lips dry. “You’re dehydrated,” Deacon states matter of factly, using all his willpower to keep his heart from pumping up to his neck. “I bet you didn’t eat properly in the past days either, and, you didn’t touch any of my provisions, meaning you’re concerned about contamination, which is wise, really, considering I nicked the stuff from some swamp raiders, but-”

The stranger pushes Deacon back onto the mattress, and with an awful calmness, points Deacon’s own pistol at him. 

“Talk.”

“Tell me I'm not right.” Deacon quickly adds, his voice raspy. “Whatever you’re trying to accomplish out here, it will fail if you starve before then.”  _ Keep talking _ . “You’ve seen how well I know my way around. I can help you out.”  _ Just keep talking _ . “There’s a place with a functioning water purifier, quite well hidden, maybe...”  _ Make yourself indispensable _ . “...maybe we can make a deal.” 

Staring down the barrel of his own gun, Deacon doesn’t dare to move, awaiting a response, a reaction, anything, but there is nothing but his own pathetic reflection in the shades. 

“I don’t make deals.”

“Never too late to change.”

-

There is something alien about the stranger, something Deacon can’t quite pinpoint. Face and skin look well groomed, even his coat and boots have a quality about them Deacon would almost describe as “new”. A concept that barely exists anymore.

Not that Deacon has much chance to study him.

They walk the night-shrouded wastes, Deacon ahead, robbed of his weapon and supplies. The soft treads of the stranger following him almost inaudibly.

It would be weird for a vault dweller to have stealth skills. Never underestimate people based on what they appear to be though. There is at least one vaultie who exceeded all his expectations by far.

The people of Vault 81 isolate themselves from the outside world as much as possible. They don’t care about the Commonwealth. They don’t even know enough to fear the Institute. Yet.

The first rays of orange sunlight cut through the crisp air. Soon they’ll reach the hidden place with the water purifier. Deacon actually told the truth about this one,  _ good job _ . He has about twenty minutes to come up with a plan until he loses his usefulness to the stranger, and--

A shot hisses through the cold air. Deacon’s hand reflexively reaches for his empty holster. The stranger shot a crow with his laser rifle.

_ Institute make _ .

“Hate birds?”

For a moment the stranger seems to consider Deacon. “Take a look at the carcass.”

Oddly enough, the dead crow emits smoke. At a closer look, Deacon notices intricate metal parts and plastic fused together from the heat of the laser. “Holy shit.”

“How far is it? Travelling by day is not advisable.”

-

It’s a scrap yard, a filthy dump of a scrap yard. Deacon can feel the skepticism building up underneath the stranger’s motionless face. There’s a garage with stacked cargo containers, next to it an office with a small housing space in an adjacent room. All kinds of clutter cover the floor, Deacon rummages through scattered papers and folders, even tests if he can move the heavy file cabinets lining the wall, checks underneath all the furniture. “It’s here somewhere.” He says more to calm himself than to inform the stranger, wondering if those will be his last words, spoken while pushing around upholstery in a dusty pre-war break room.

_ Doesn’t matter anyway _ , he thinks,  _ he’ll put me out the moment he has the purifier _ \- “Aha!” Deacon exclaims as he wobbles on a loose tile, looking up at the stranger as if he had just found the solution for every single problem in the world. “I knew it was here!” Removing several loose tiles, a hatch down to a secret basement emerges. Maybe, if he can pull it off, he can shake his shadow here, sneak away while the parched stranger is busy down there getting the purifier to work-

“Get in.”

Deacon points at himself in surprise as if he wasn’t sure the stranger meant him.

“You heard me.”

“You, uh, might want to be careful with that heavy-ass metal door while I’m down there.

“The water.”

_ It’s fine, he won’t shut you in as long as he hasn’t got the water _ .

There’s all sorts of gizmos and supplies in the basement, Deacon took inventory back when he discovered it ages ago. Tons of canned food on one shelf, tools and spare parts on another.

Weapons and explosives in the far corner.

They don’t go unnoticed by the stranger perched on the steep stairs, keeping a close eye on every of Deacon’s movements with a loaded gun. Blocking the only exit. 

Deacon steps to the power generator and checks the gauge of the containing fusion core. “Energy still up and purring like a cat.” Deacon explains just to say something. “And the purifier looks virtually factory-new as well, apart from two centuries worth of dust, but let’s not be nitpicky and boot this baby up.” The device comes to life and ‘miraculously’ dies down again immediately. 

“Oops.” Deacon can guess the stranger’s unamused frown despite the shades. “I’m not too much of a handyman myself, but I know a thing or two about, y’know, reverse sabotage.” The maneuver buys him access to the tools and spare parts, possibly giving him the chance to secretly nick a weapon. “Speaking of sabotage… you were at the processing plant? Man, if it wasn’t for you, those Bros would have had me.” Deacon takes his sweet time to rummage through the pile of spare parts, “That was you, right? I could feel, like, the same kinda looming aura I feel now.” Deacon looks up at the shadow, still unmoving on the stairs. “Anyway…” He lets a few spare parts drop to the ground. Not very subtle, but it’s enough of a diversion to slip a clasp knife into his pocket.

Half an hour later, Deacon gets the device to produce a gallon of purified, pasteurized water. The cleanest quality he has ever seen outside a vault. Hot, tasteless water. A true luxury.

Breathing goes easier again when the shadow disappears from the stairs and allows Deacon to ascend.

“Voilà.” Deacon says as he sets down the canister on the break room table upstairs.

The stranger produces a peculiar device and seems to scan the liquid. Whatever results came up, he must be satisfied enough to fill up a Whisky glass and down it in one gulp.

“I didn’t find any larger cups.” Deacon comments as he sees his chances of survival dwindle with every drop of strength the stranger regains.

After several refills, the stranger reaches for a second glass, fills it and slides it over to Deacon.

_Guess I’m gonna die with a full bladder_ . “Thanks, mom.”

"What did u just call me?"

"I was joking."

"You should be scared."

"I am scared." Deacon smirks and points at himself, "this is my scared face. I want you to help me.”

The stranger lifts an exquisite eyebrow. “In case it escaped you: you are my prisoner.”

“I know. I am fine with that. As long as you keep the Brotherhood’s greasy little hands off the candy jar.”

The stranger seems perfectly still, attentive.

_ Oh thank god, an opening _ .

The big three for predicting people: caps, beliefs, and ego. 

_ Time to find out which it is _ .

“Y’know, I get paid good money to piss on the Brotherhood’s leg.”

As much as the stranger is capable of controlling his emotions, this statement coaxes an disapproving tsk out of him.

_ Definitely not caps _ .

“But to be honest, they are a bunch of assholes I want to see bleed.”

The stranger seems unfazed, only a small cock of the head.

_ Could be ego. _

“In any case,” Deacon continues, “them and their ideology deserve to be wiped out.”

No reaction at all.

_ Bingo, beliefs. _

“You must be desperate to ask me for help.” The stranger states.

“So are you.”

“I work alone.”

“I can help you with that.”

In that very moment, Deacon’s stomach decides to gurgle a loud unhappy gurgle. He sighs and chuckles. “Look. I know you’re not touching the stuff, but I’m going dig in.” He extends his arm in the hope the stranger would finally return his backpack to him, but instead the shadow produces a can of pork and beans and noisily puts it on the table.

Deacon takes the can, and examines it from every angle like it was a novelty item. “Dude. You took my army knife, how am I supposed to open it?” 

The stranger calmly extends his hand. Deacon looks at it, sighs in resignation and gives him the can. With Deacon’s very knife, the stranger opens the can and returns it.

“Spoon. Please?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls notice the added tags

“Really now?” Deacon’s objection goes unheard. “Just when I thought we were warming up to each other.” Edges of metal cut into his wrists. “You’re just gonna leave me here?” The stranger is ignoring all of Deacon’s complaints. “I am not comfy here, pal.”

No luck. The stranger leaves Deacon cowering in the garage, handcuffed to an icy metal pipe.

“What, you want me to knock once for super mutants, twice for Brotherhood? How about this fancy tune?” He thrums a beat on the pipe that traps him. “No?” He calls after the stranger who disappears for a nap behind the break room door, and Deacon has been ‘volunteered’ to stand guard. “It’s the famous tune,  _ Shave and Haircut, two bits! _ ” He says in a melodic cadence, but to no avail.

Ahh, blissful solitude. And cold. And potential deadly exposure to wild animals. Living the dream out here. With his free hand, Deacon fumbles for the clasp knife in his pocket and picks the lock. He sighs and rubs his sore wrist. With no supplies, no stealth boy, and no weapon besides a two inch toy knife, his chances of survival are slim even if he should be able to shake the sleeping shadow. And as things seem, there’s a realistic chance for them to run into each other again stalking Brotherhood facilities.

Deacon scrubs his stubbly chin and ponders his options. Yeah maybe a shave and a haircut is the answer. He has a knife and his captor should be asleep by now. It’s not like murdering a man in his sleep would be the worst of atrocities on his list, but it still makes him feel sick in the stomach.

  
  


It’s maybe an hour later of internal struggle when Deacon notices it. Plump footfalls in the scrapyard outside, grunted halfwords. Super Mutants, three of them, approaching and fast.

Without his gun, Deacon has never felt so naked.

Should he warn the stranger and walk into the dead end that is the breakroom, or try to make a run through the garage-? A long-stretched screech dropping from high pitched to low lets Deacon’s blood freeze. Right next to him, behind the window, is a Mutant Hound.

Deacon hammers on the pipe, hopefully loud enough to wake sleeping beauty, definitely loud enough to catch the hound’s attention. A huff from outside, some excited padding along the wall. Only a matter of time until it finds an entrance.

Maybe he can sneak through the garage to the back, maybe he can make it uphill to the woods to the safehouse, maybe-

He’s almost out the building when Deacon hears the horrifying bellow of the creature. A laser rifle is being fired in rapid succession and Super Mutants yell in attack when the wood of a boarded up window bursts and tears a hole into the breakroom, followed by a deep, metallic thud of a massive weight falling into place.

Deacon listens from behind the wall.

Some gruff huffing and heavy footsteps.

“There was human, where he went?”

“Ground ate him, I saw.”

The rumbly voices move away from the room the stranger was resting in, and Deacon’s heart sinks when he peeks through the hole in the window. The basement hatch is closed, two of the heavy file cabinets wedged atop of it.

_ Oh my god _ .

If the stranger survived the initial attack, he’s now doomed to die a slow death behind the jammed hatch.

And it’s Deacon’s fault.

  
  


The mutants leave, or at least two of them. There’s one dead by the door, the body of the hound a bit further in.

In the mess of the breakroom, Deacon finds his backpack near the cot, untouched, but missing his gun. The stranger must have carried it during the attack. He finds the hatch, or, at least a few square inches of it that aren’t covered in several hundredweights of metal cabinets. With a shaking hand, Deacon knocks at it.

No answer.

Deacon knocks again.

Did the stranger die during the attack? Is there nothing to find but a body? Did he kill himself when he realized he was trapped and couldn’t possibly open the hatch? Did he pass his last moments of life in terror and the knowledge of having failed? 

Deacon frantically scans the room for any tools, any helpful item- he needs to open that hatch, now, he has to do what he can, he- Deacon knocks the tune on the hatch, helplessly.

With his ear on the ground, he listens. Just as he’s about to get up, there it is. From underneath, dull and muffled, but sure enough still:  _ Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits _ .

Like in a fever dream, Deacon works to uncover the hatch. He can’t let that poor fucker die down there, he-- he needs his help, any help he can get, even if it’s a long shot, that’s the only chance he’s got.

It takes considerable effort until he is capable of lifting the emptied cabinets with a lever. The lock is undamaged and the hatch opens with a groan. Deacon flops down on the ground, yellow glow flooding up through the opening.

A shadow emerges from the light, walking up the stairs to tower over Deacon. Not in a threatening way. In lack of a better word, Deacon would describe it as… startled. Shy even. Like a 6 foot 6 tall newborn fawn of a radstag with a frown.

“You saved me.”

“Yeah.” Deacon catches his breath. "I wouldn't wish such a horrible death onto my worst enemy."

-

They sit at the break room table, sipping water from whiskey glasses, like you do. Deacon nibbles on some dried rations from his bag, inspecting what seems to be a chain of colorful holiday lights attached to a power cord that leads down into the basement that now has an unhinged door lying on the ground. “What is it with this thing?” Deacon asks just to say something.

“I needed an additional light source in the basement to find materials for a basic automated weapons system.” The shadow dispassionately explains.

“You did what?” Deacon blurts out. “You were trapped down there, bound to die, and the thing you thought up to do was tinker around?”

The stranger cocks his head the tiniest bit. “...yes.”

“You are nuts. I could’ve made a run but instead I stayed to save a batshit crazy person. Oh my god.”

The stranger lifts an eyebrow. “You do realize, however, saving one’s captor wasn’t exactly the smart idea either.”

“I do realize that.” Deacon says rubbing his face.

The stranger gets up, steading himself on the backrest of his chair before reaching in his coat. “Here.” He says placing Deacon’s pistol on the table, “Keep an eye out. I am going back to work on the weapons system. This place is the ideal base to run ops against the Brotherhood.”

Deacon feels the smooth grip of the pistol in his hand, sturdy in built, precise, excellent craftsmanship. It’s like breathing goes easier again when he holsters it. “Wait.” He says, rummaging in the backpack. “I know this is tainted, but you need sustenance.” The knife slides right through the lid of the tin can. “Now, I’ll even lend you my silver spoon if you promise to eat up. Deal?”

“I don’t-”

“Yeah I know, you don’t make deals. But consider this free life advice: If you want to survive up here, you gotta eat. Next counselling session is ten caps, so I’d consider my bullshit if I were you.”

The stranger sighs and sits down again. “Fair enough.” He says and accepts the spoon.

“I’m Deacon by the way. Bon appetit.” He says and gets up. The room is a mess, if they’re going to make this their base, he’s got to clean up, secure the place, make it defensible. He fumbles for a cigarette, but instead reaches for his army knife. Time to build some nasty little mutant traps.

“I appreciate it. Deacon.” The stranger speaks deliberately, then turns in his seat, hands in his lap, looking tense. Or sad. “I don’t have a name anymore. I think.”

A soft smile on Deacon’s face. “I know how that feels.”

-

They have time.

Tapping the Brotherhood radio messages, Deacon knows they are still busy fixing the lead factory to upgrade their Vertibirds against radiation. Flight movement has officially ceased, which matches with Deacon’s own observations.

The Brotherhood doesn’t even know yet they are under attack, and Deacon wants to keep it that way. Back in the factory the nameless stranger didn’t kill any soldiers, but wounded several of them, which was a smart move. The Brotherhood thinks some inept raider entered their facility, yet their personnel is incapacitated all the same.

They have so much time.

If they start sabotaging Vertibirds right away, the Brotherhood might feel threatened and send out search parties. That’s the opposite of what Deacon wants.

The stranger has reluctantly begun to accept provisions, the bunker conveniently filled with century old preserves, stale and tasteless, but edible. With his newfound strength, the stranger actually managed to construct an automated laser turret. From scratch.

“Wow, you are really good with your hands. Envy!” The comment earns Deacon an impassive look from the stranger like so often during these long and idle days which Deacon peppers with whatever nonsense his stream of consciousness feeds him.

The stranger doesn’t talk much, and Deacon knows better than to press him with questions that go ignored anyway. He seems lost in a way only someone can be who has experienced great loss, which hardly is a distinguishing trait in the Commonwealth. Regarding technical and stealth skills, he’s highly competent. Same with his combat ability, even though Deacon so far has only seen him severely weakened. 

In other respects, however, this deadly shadow seems almost vulnerable in an odd way. There is his grave lack of survival skills. The way he dodges conversations by simply staying silent. A mundane task like setting up a meal sends him walking back and forth several times until he has gathered everything. He seems unfamiliar to the concept of heating canned food to enhance its flavor. All this disorganization vanishes the second he sits down to focus on tinkering on highly complex automated weapons systems.

  
  


Today is no different than the past few days. Except everything is different now. The stranger has regained all his strength, even though he still eats every food with visible discontent, he trains every day and keeps his senses sharp by throwing knifes after cockroaches without even looking.

Today’s also the day Vertibirds are flying south. Deacon tells the stranger which outposts they are most likely headed to and where they pose an easy target for, say, a little midnight sabotage.

The job itself is easy enough, only the weather doesn’t quite cooperate. The nights are freezing, the breeze is icy and cuts through their coats. However, the howling of the wind is a great cover for what they set out to do: two Vertibirds tempered with to make it look like common fatigue of material.

They slip in and out of the Brotherhood base, it’s a joy how smooth ops with the stranger are.

Unsettlingly smooth.

When they make it back to the scrap yard at dawn, Deacon shivers from the cold. He checks on the hidden traps, flicks a button on a makeshift device that lets the laser turret outside whirr to life. He’s not prepared to find the stranger almost naked slipping under the sheets of his cot. Feeling like he overstepped by letting his eyes linger, Deacon acts like he was busy sorting his gear before he retreats to the couch, still shivering even after wrapping himself in his sleeping bag.

The stranger lifts his blanket.

“Um, what are you doing?” Deacon asks.

“Offering you to share body warmth.”

Deacon gulps, sends a quick prayer to the Gods of Sunglasses, and without shame stares at the perfectly toned abs and pecs, and the strong arms that casually invite him to cuddle. “Sure.” Deacon says. “Hypothermia is a bitch, right?” He gets up and is about to slip under the sheets, when the stranger gestures him to get rid of his clothes.

“Additional layers are only hindering the thermal conduction.”

“Yeah sure, what am I thinking.” Deacon takes off his shirt. “You’ll excuse me though if I keep my boxers, and, full disclaimer, I won’t be held accountable for any accidental, uh, poking.”

“Just don’t keep me up with your talking.” The stranger says and rolls over.

Deacon huddles up behind him, touching the naked skin like he wasn’t nervous at all, Deacon’s chest pressed up against an inviting warm back. The stranger smells of their shared soap, of dry sand and leather. The rich dark skin of the stranger’s neck is tempting, so close Deacon could taste it if he just leaned in.

“Shift.” The stranger says, “your breathing is tickling me.” And only then Deacon can feel his heart race, and scoots over a little and doesn’t apologize fearing his voice might sound pathetic.

Naturally, the next day Deacon wakes with his dick hard in his pants.

_ Surprise… _

When the stranger peels himself out of the bed, Deacon pretends to be sleeping and hopefully delay whatever awkward situation might arise from this until he finds a moment of privacy to... fix this.

He notices the stranger disappear around the corner, no door in the frame to separate the two rooms. When a sweet sigh travels through the air, Deacon’s ears perk up. Some quiet breathing, slow, then faster, faster--  _ what? _ \-- groans intermixed with heavy breathing, turning into a long soft moan.

_ Oh. _

Did he just do what he thinks he did?

Deacon doesn’t feel too bad about no longer playing asleep when the stranger returns, naked, wiping his hand on his discarded underpants.

“I didn’t intend to wake you, but since you’re up, we should get going.”

“Did you just…?”

“Affirmative.”

Well, that certainly doesn’t help with Deacon’s tent in his own pants.  _ Dammit _ .

“Do you mind if I too…?”

“Suit yourself.” The stranger says, already busy washing the stained piece of cloth and dressing himself.

Deacon curses inwardly as he waddles around the corner, hearing the noises of the stranger packing up his gear.

_ Dammit, what gives. _

The stranger hasn’t shot him so far, he won’t do that now, disgracefully, with his hands on his dick. Why is this so terrifying and arousing?

_ Fuck. _

His hand starts slow -when’s the last time he has been that horny?- dammit, he wants to relish this, he can almost taste this delicious neck, dry sand and leather, he--

He doesn’t last and comes with a choked curse he’s sure is audible the room over.

_ Yeah, fuck it.  _

He pulls up his pants and steps back into the room where the stranger wordlessly hands him a piece of soap.

“We should head back to the production plant tonight.”

“Yessir.” Deacon beams at him for comedic effect as if that would somehow negate the fact that he’s naked and just jerked off in earshot a moment ago.

-

It’s another smooth run, they nick the spare parts the Brotherhood collected to repair the production line, stole other boxes and parts too to make it look like passing raiders were just just trying to wreck random havoc.

It’s also another glistering cold night, and Deacon is looking forward to warming up again back at base in the scrap yard. That’s when they spot a figure walking in the moonlight on a hill in front of them. Deacon recognizes that gait. Face and head uncovered despite the cold. Even from this distance, there’s no doubt: it’s Wanderer. Nora. The woman out of time.

She’s the person with answers, she’s the only one who knows how dangerous the Institute really is right now. Deacon could just catch up after her, reveal himself and ask her for help--

He turns to see the stranger stare at Nora.

“Let’s take a detour.” Deacon says, “no use in involving random bystanders.”

The stranger nods and follows after Deacon. 

Even if Nora knows what really happened to the endless energy source the Institute wanted to get in their hands at Mass Fusion, it doesn’t mean she opposes the Minutemen’s plan to team up with the Brotherhood for a Bigger Boom. There’s a real chance she’s here to make sure the mission goes smoothly.

It says a lot about Deacon’s mental preoccupation with the subject, but also a lot about the stranger’s true stealth capabilities when Deacon notices only a few clicks from the scrap yard that he is alone.

_ Shit _ .

Deacon doesn’t know what it means, but it means  _ something _ . He frantically tracks back his path searching for any signs where the stranger trailed off, broken twigs, turned stones, anything-- there’s nothing. That guy is no amateur. Panic speeds up his heartbeat.

Near the hill where they first saw her, he can pick up her trail. South, then southwest, dodging every shelter and building, a turn- it’s a nonsensical route. Atop another hill amidst a ruin, he can see fire flicker as the morning sun is coming through. Nora looks tired, lost and lonely. Even in her worst days Deacon has never seen her in a shape like this. Other than that, she seems unharmed.

He makes himself noticeable before approaching. “Nice fire you got going.” He says, sees her head perk up in terror. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Oh my god.” She says with a shaking voice. “Yes. I mean, no.” She adds, “mine is in the shop.”

Deacon smiles at how she messes up the countersign even after a year of running with the Railroad. “Lesson number two hundred forty and a half-- Ah, I’m gonna let it slide this time.” He walks up to her, unexpectedly met with a tight hug.

“Deacon, is that you? I’m so glad you are here.” She sobs into his jacket. “Have you seen them?” Frantic eyes scan their surroundings. “I think the Institute is on to me.”

“You can’t stay out here in the open.” Deacon thinks of the mechanic crow the stranger shot the other day. “It’s not safe when the sun is up.”

“If you’ve seen Institute, you’ve got to tell me!” Her voice cuts through the air. They need to find shelter, the sooner the better. “Please, help me!”

“Help you with what?”

“There is one out here. A Courser.”

“You want to waltz around here in bright daylight in the hopes of attracting a Courser? Are you insane?”

“No, he went rogue. He’s my friend. We have to find him!”

“What?” Thoughts pile up in Deacon’s head. “A Courser going rogue? Do you really think that’s possible-”

“It is.”

A smooth voice from much too close belonging to a familiar shadow stepping out of Deacon’s blind angle.

“X6!” Nora cheers and hugs the stranger. “I am so sorry.”

Before Deacon can fully registers Nora’s words, a thundering hiss and a bright blue flash rob his senses. It must have been reflex, but Deacon finds himself taking cover behind a wall, safe from the laser shots. The sound of bursting metal clattering to the ground, robotic voices, more shooting. Deacon doesn’t dare to look.

“I trusted you!” Is what the stranger shouts when the fire ceases. Deacon sucks in a breath and peeks around the corner. Several gen2 synths lying scattered on the ground, the wounded stranger pointing his gun at Nora’s head, when another bright blue flash zips her away and in her stead materializes another shadow, clad in the same black leathers as the stranger.

Back in hiding, Deacon hears a deep dump thud, then another and another, right behind that crumbling building. A shadow and a stranger, fighting each other. 

Nobody ever saw a Courser and lived to tell the tale.

There are two of them, fighting each other. 

Deacon can feel the shock on the other side when one of them gets thrown against the crumbling structure.

“You were a Courser.” A new voice speaks, the new shadow. Deacon can smell the ozone when the laser rifle is fired.

“You were the most dedicated of us all.” The new voice continues, followed by a second shot. “But your brawling skills always sucked.” Two more shots being fired and Deacon can hear the stranger groaning. “I used to look up to you. But no more, X6.”

There’s a wheezing and gurgling in reply, the stranger attempting to speak and failing.

“Why so incoherent, X6?” The new voice taunts.

The next noise is a defiant thump of two skulls connecting spiked with what sounds like sunglasses cracking.

“You bastard. As if that’s going to save you.” 

There’s some shuffling, then a deep thud. It’s almost as if Deacon can feel the impact that breaks the stranger’s ribs.

“We don’t need your cooperation to get what we want.” The new voice hisses. “Recall code Zeta-4-7-”

Deacon doesn’t know where the shot came from and who fired it, it’s like waking from a horrible dream when he notices his pistol is aimed at where the hostile new shadow’s head used to be. 

“Hell yeah,” Deacon croaks, “that was satisfying. Shooting a Courser.” He gasps, incapable of breathing fast enough to keep up with his racing heart. With reality creeping back to him, Deacon now points his pistol at the stranger.

The Courser X6-88.

The Courser is a mess on the ground, all four limbs crippled by laser shots, beaten half to death, looking up at Deacon with gray eyes.

Deacon cracks an awful smile to not lose his mind.

  
  


_ Kelly K., Maven, Beatrice, _

Deacon stares at the dying Courser.

_ Ms. Boom, Francis, Roger,  _

He holsters his pistol, leaving the Courser to his fate.

_ Songbird, Mr. Mathers, Tommy Whispers--- _

Cruel.

“You really defected from the Institute?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer that’s unlikely to come anyway. “Doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re going to die.” Deacon says, watching the Courser spit blood in a failed attempt to speak. “What am I gonna do with you? Mercy killing?”

“My coat…” the stranger stammers, “...drug.”

“Pain meds?” Deacon frowns, hesitates.

_ Wouldn't wish such a horrible death onto my worst enemy _ .

In a pocket of the Courser’s coat, he finds an unlabeled syringe.

It’s unfair. None of them at Switchboard were ever granted a choice like this.

Deacon exposes the Courser’s neck, slowly applying the shot, grey eyes looking at him.

“Another dose, on the… body.”

“How nice the Institute supplies their assassins with ample pain medication. Almost merciful.” Sure enough, when Deacon checks the dead Courser, he finds another dose and sacks it. “Now what.” Deacon muses more to himself than to the Courser.

“I can’t die yet.”

Deacon examines the Courser on the ground, blood dripping in the corners of his mouth suggesting internal bleeding, most likely several ribs broken, the joints of all his limbs burned from the laser.

“I think you’re past it, pal.”

The Courser pulls himself up the wall, inch by inch. Faltering, but not falling, he makes it to his feet. No wonder the Railroad never managed to take one of them down. They’re truly superhuman.

“I need to know why she betrayed me.”

“You and me both.”

“It’s not safe here.” The Courser says and tries to take a step.

There’s no choice if Deacon wants answers. He props up the unwilling stranger and helps him walk. Painstakingly slow, they set for the scrap yard in broad daylight, the Courser pointing out every single crow for Deacon to shoot.

They don’t have a lot of medical supplies, but they have clean water. The Courser seems like he’s zoning out while Deacon works on his wounds. Must be some hell of a drug to completely block out his numerous injuries. The laser shots were precisely placed to incapacitate movements, whereas the broken ribs and the split lip are more likely the result of an angered Courser beating up his treacherous colleague. There’s no way to tell how bad the internal bleedings are, and Deacon finds himself on a clock to extract some information.

“Why is the Institute trying to kill you?” Deacon asks while cleaning up the laser wounds.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Ah yeah? Try me.”

“You betrayed the Minutemen.” The Courser says. “Surface scum like you doesn’t understand anything about true loyalty-”

The Courser fails to suppress a low hiss when Deacon yanks his burned arm away in an act to get a closer look. “I think you’ve got the power dynamics here a little bit mixed up.”

“Don’t underestimate me. Even injured we Coursers are still-”

“Ah, is that too tight?” Deacon claws his fingers into the bandage.

The Courser can’t help but groan from being manhandled and probably collapse if he wasn’t already lying on the cot. 

“Sometimes,” Deacon starts, “you have to betray people in order to stay true to your ideals.”

Deep wrinkles cut into the bare Courser’s face, now for the first time looking appropriately pained given the state he’s in. 

“Father is dead.” The words drop heavily from the Courser’s mouth. “Our director. He was murdered.” 

-

When the Courser tells his tale, everything becomes clear, and nothing makes sense anymore.

X6-88 couldn’t stay after he found the truth about their director’s death, too many noble men were involved in perverting humanity’s beacon of hope.

Suddenly, Courser X6-88 understood why Nora had to leave the Institute. He went to search for her, but instead found the former Brotherhood Paladin who was a close friend of hers. He followed him to the Minutemen, but Nora wasn’t there. All hope seemed lost when the Brotherhood and the Minutemen decided to join forces and destroy everything X6-88 has ever believed in, suffered and shed blood for.

Then, this Minutemen deserter with knowledge and a plan decided to do something against it. X6-88 decided finding the future director of the Institute was less important than securing the Institute in the first place.

  
  


All this doesn’t explain why Nora acted the way she did, why she betrayed her allies and joined the Institute this time for real.

Deacon knows the Courser’s words are true, just like he knew he had been followed by a shadow ever since the Castle. There’s no doubt, 99,8% certainty, doesn’t get better than that. With the Institute being in such internal disarray, maybe there are other ways to defeat them but bomb them and half the Commonwealth into the last century. Deacon has to get the word out. 

And that’s why he walks.

The next Railroad dead drop is miles up north, reaching it takes a whole day with minimal sleep and risky daytime travel. With a little luck, they won’t dismiss their rogue spy’s message completely and reconsider laying the Commonwealth fate into the Brotherhood’s hands.

It’s dark when Deacon returns to the scrap yard the next night. It looks rundown and deserted, like it should, apart from a single stray mole rat Deacon shoots with a single shot. Congratulating himself on his precision, he picks up the body and soon to be dinner. Nothing about the building hints at the laser turret hidden in the shrubs at the front which Deacon avoids spaciously, the wire traps in the back are well concealed between cargo containers, the seemingly random scrap parts and shrapnel scattered on the floor to give away the softest treading footfalls are undisturbed. Seems like things have been quiet in Deacon’s absence.

Time to check on patient X.

Deacon reaches the backdoor leading to the office, and is about to make a stupid joke about bringing home the bacon, when he steps through the door and finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Institute make.

The Courser, propping himself up on the desk, lowers the gun as soon as he recognizes Deacon, or maybe it’s just his arm dropping from exhaustion. He is jittery and sweats a type of cold sweat Deacon recognizes immediately.

“What, living in terror of Coursers?” Deacon laughs bitterly and closes the door behind him. “Welcome to the club.” He picks the weapon from the Courser’s limp hand and guides him over to sit down at the table in the break room. “Here, drink this. You don’t look so fresh.” He pours him a glass of water, then returns over to the desk in the other room and begins to cut up the mole rat’s carcass. “It’s gonna be steak tonight, honey.” He calls over, “I know you’d rather not nibble on nasty surface critters, but we should save the canned food for bad times, like, I don’t know, a nuclear winter or something.”

“I will eat it.”

“What was that?” Deacon pops his head through the door.

“I said I will eat it.”

“That’s ma boy. By the way, what do I call you? X? Six? Eighty-Eight? Sexy frown?”

“My designation is X6-88.”

“And that’s a beautiful name, really, but imagine we’re out on a walk and suddenly I see a nasty Mirelurk approaching from your six. What do I say? Watch out, Courser designated Ex-six-eighty-eight!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Call me X6.” The Courser frowns.

“I’ll try, sexy frown.”

-

The truth is, it is fucking freezing outside. That’s at least what Deacon tells himself when he asks X6 to share some ‘body warmth’. X6 agrees with his patented dispassion and goes to sleep. Careful not to put pressure on the injuries, Deacon settles in next to him.

His only ally, a Courser. Deacon is convinced he will drop dead should he ever dare to set foot again in HQ.

Another truth is, he sleeps that day like a baby. He wakes at dusk when X6 is getting up, the chiselled muscles on his back dancing as he slips into his shirt.

“Awww.” Deacon pouts. “I liked the view before much better.” Deacon copies the impassive look X6 predictably shoots him.

“Stop fooling around. There’s work tonight.”

“Ouch. That’s not the morning after talk I was hoping for.”

X6 lifts an exquisitely judgemental eyebrow and proceeds to collect his coat and gear. “Get going.”

“Let me check you up.”

X6 seemed on the brink of dying when Deacon left him a few days ago, today the burned flesh on his limbs looks like it had been weeks, the ribs Deacon was sure were broken now move evenly under his breath.

Coursers really are something different.

Strangely enough, the memory returns of Nora falling into the Courser’s embrace. She tricked them both, almost got the two of them killed. “Why would she do such a thing?” Deacon whispers tonelessly.

In response, the chest collapses under Deacon’s hands. 

“What is worth betraying her most loyal allies?”

Without the Courser’s glasses, there’s nothing to reflect Deacon’s shades back at him. “I do not know,” the Courser says, “but I will find out.”

In silence, Deacon removes the remaining bandages, now void of any purpose. In amazement of the fast recovery, he traces with his feeling hand where the Courser’s arm has been raw flesh and burned skin not long ago. Now healed, and lush, and perfect.

“Tell me.” Deacon’s train of thought gets interrupted. “Deacon.” The Courser starts again, “can emotions lie?”

It takes a moment for the spy to process what that nearly invincible assassin just asked him.

“Can someone feel something that isn’t really there?” Gray eyes search for an answer but sure enough are bound to find his own image reflected back at him in Deacon’s shades.

“I’m…” It’s like Deacon never considered Coursers having feelings. It’s easier not to. “I’m not sure what you mean…” He retreats his hands from the warm living skin. “If you feel it, that means it’s there.”

-

Vertibirds don’t sabotage themselves though, and so the next night brings another trip to a Brotherhood outpost. 

Two guards walk the perimeter, a third one on the lookout from a tower. Deacon and X6 are right in the middle of the landing platform hidden between two parked vertibirds, when they hear a third chopper approach. They manage to hide in one of the vehicles before flashlights flood the landing platform in sharp brightness. It makes things complicated even with a stealth boy.

Dust swirls up from the landing machine, the two infiltrators pressed against the wall of the cabin, motionless. Deacon stares in disbelief as the Courser begins to fumble on the vertibirds control panel.

‘Let’s switch into this one.’ One of the soldiers says.

_ Please not this one please not this one _ , Deacon prays, but in vain. Heavy footfalls approach, power armor.  _ Shit _ . There’s an ammo box in front of Deacon, opens it, finds a handy toy and hurls it out the back of the helicopter, far far away, into the dark outside the base. It lands with a thud.

‘What was that?’ A confused soldier is the last thing Deacon hears before the explosion goes off and the whole base is running.

Close to his ear is a smooth, calm voice. “Stealth boy on maximum.”

And they make it out of the vertibird, through the light, out of the base, unseen. Deacon’s heart is pounding up to his neck when they reach a safe distance. When he turns to face the outpost on the horizon, there’s another explosion going off..

“Always check the wiring of your flight vehicle.” The voice of X6 sounds smug.

“Wow.” Deacon laughs. “I am so impressed and horny right now.”

“The answer is yes.”

“What?” It’s an awfully dark night, the Courser’s shape is nothing but a shadow in front of Deacon. “What do you mean?”

“Yes, I would engage in sexual intercourse with you.”

“Wha- why do you say that?” Deacon’s voice is a pitch higher than intended. 

“I interpret your continuous remarks as crude attempts of flirtation. Am I mistaken?”

“It’s a joke. I was joking. Nevermind.” Deacon manages to regain his cool. Mostly, at least. 

In silent, X6 walks on, seemingly unfazed.

“Does that mean, I mean… would you?” Deacon stammers.

“As I said. Yes.”

“Why?”

“You have shown great skill both as a spy and infiltrator, you are focused and precise despite being a wasteland human and handicapped.”

If that’s how Coursers flirt, Deacon is not interested in ever getting roasted by one.

“Are my reasons insufficient to you?” There’s a new softness to the Courser’s voice.

-

There’s the hidden laser turret, the armed wire traps, undisturbed junk on the floor. Everything’s as it should be, and yet the scrap yard seems strange and unfamiliar to Deacon. It’s almost like he didn’t install most of these defences himself, like it was uncharted territory, dangerous, but alluring all the same.

“Wash up.” As X6 begins heating water, the room loses some of it’s icy quality.

Deacon is just standing there, his gear still strapped on to him. “It’s fine,” he says.

“It’s not.”

“I guess you’re not used to dealing with the dirt of the wasteland?”

“I am.” X6 says, “but not for weeks on time. I would go back to the Institute and get myself decontaminated. Not an option now.”

Deacon almost wishes the Courser would wear shades again, emotions cracking through the cold facade with ease. “I’m sorry.” Deacon says, doesn’t know why. The Institute is wrong, always has been. Even their most prized creation suffers from their wrongness.

Deacon pinches the bridge of his nose and sits down on the cold floor right where he stands. “This is what my nightmares are made of. I mean, not exactly this. It’s not like I dream of getting butt ass naked in front of a Courser, but eh, close enough.”

X6 shoots him an inspecting look before crouching down next to Deacon. “You have nightmares?” He asks, intense grey eyes piercing through Deacon, making his heart skip.

“Of course I do. Who doesn’t?” He huffs a laugh. “You don’t have nightmares, X6?”

X6 furrows his brow for a moment, pondering. “I think I do have them.”

“You mean, you’re not sure?”

“The scientists say we cannot dream.”

“But you do feel fear, right?”

“I am capable of all emotions. But unlike humans, I am not controlled by them.”

“Is that so?” Deacon asks thoughtfully, from behind his shades studying X6 covering on the freezing floor, letting the heated water go to waste. “If you’ll excuse me,” Deacon says getting up, “I’ve got some washing to do.”

_ Dammit _ .

_ Dammit dammit _ .

The hot water on his skin is heaven on earth, the soap leaving a delicate scent to his body and X6’s. Deacon tries to pay no attention to the gorgeous Courser washing up beside him, from the corner of his eye he can see toned muscles under flawless skin, and it feels like his brain is about to explode from the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Deacon curses a thousand more curses internally, berating himself for all the fantasies that pop up in his mind. He’s drying up when he notices X6 standing behind him close enough to feel his radiating body heat.

Sudden panic rises in Deacon. His reflex tells him to fight or flight, or at least ruin everything with an inappropriate joke, like he always does. Instead, he freezes and stops to breathe.

“May I feel your skin?” The smooth voice behind him asks.

“You… wait, what?”

“May I feel the skin of your neck?”

“I don’t--” Deacon turns his head, facing the taller man. “The way you say that makes it sound incredibly disturbing.”

“That was not my intention.”

“I-- Well, I wouldn’t object to a back rub, I guess. I mean, it’s fine.” Deacon sends a quick prayer to all available gods that he may be completely naked, but at least his glasses hide his pathetic needy face.

They sit on the cot and X6 places his hands on Deacon’s shoulders, they’re warm and soft despite the dirty work they do. Deacon’s breath hitches-- he's gonna choke you, now any second he's gonna choke you-- but X6’s hands are gentle, ghosting over Deacon’s skin like a whisper in the wind.

_ He’s a Courser, he has done horrible things _ , Deacon keeps repeating in his mind and leans into the touch. He can’t remember the last time he has been touched like this, so tender and considerate, a touch that takes back all its own wants, only serves the pleasure of the other person-- he forgets to suppress a sigh and lets his breath flow.

"Judging by your bodily reactions, you are enjoying this, am I correct?" A smooth whisper inquires, carrying more softness than the formal speech would ever imply.

"I do.” Deacon clears his throat and manages to reply firmly.

"I have seen you hide your feelings behind fake emotions. To succeed in that is very rare in a human." 

The voice of X6 is so close to his ear. "Years of working in the emotion suppression business--" Deacon says and turns to X6 with a smirk, and--  _ oh my god _ \-- Pale grey eyes focus on every of Deacon's reactions, the chiseled face glowing with heat, he's positively gorgeous, strong, naked, and--

He's staring, Deacon knows he's staring, but this Institute Courser is just the most beautiful person he has ever seen-- a shiver runs down his spine and he notices too late his mouth is agape.

"It seems," X6 whispers, "you're not so skilled in suppressing your emotions now." It’s not even meant teasingly, just factually and sweet somehow. But how embarrassed is Deacon when he follows the gaze of X6, and finds himself in an upright state of disarray only from a gentle backrub--

"Ohh," Deacon drawls stupidly, "ooh I aah, yeah. It's been a while since, y'know, apart from- y’know, but that's a different thing, I mean--" he stops himself, trying not to look even lamer than he already does.

"Me too.” X6 says so sweetly, so openly, it floods Deacon's heart with the kind reassurance of being met with sincerity-- “It's been quite a long time."

"I uhh--" Deacon clears his throat, "so, do you-- I mean. Is there a plan to do something, about. This?"

_ dammit dammit dammit _

Deacon’s heart traitorously pounding up to his neck--

"There can be." X6 simply states and gets up to stand in front of Deacon, one hand never losing contact while moving, fingers sliding along Deacon’s shoulder to his collarbone. "What do you wish me to do?"

_ holy shit this is happening _

Deacon just stares-- X6 in all his tall muscular glory framed by the shine of the dim light. "What… would you like to do?"

"I'll show you." And with those words, that gorgeous man is on his knees, his head finding a way between Deacon's legs. With one hand holding him in place, X6 sucks him fast and hard.

Deacon chokes every response he might have formed, so good, so so good, his whole body dissolves into this sensation immediately-- it’s too much too fast, all he finds himself capable to do before greedily thrusting his hips into the other man’s throat, is to yank away X6’s head. "If you're going that fast I’m- I'm gonna cum--" He says in lieu of the disrespectful motion, panting.

"That's the plan." X6 looks up at him from between his legs, hot breath on his lips. "I can slow down."

Deacon grunts in agreement, "Understood,” X6 replies, and with that, his mouth gets back to work, slow, excruciating, Deacon now reduced to low frustrated moans.

" N-... not that slow… hngh." Deacon helplessly bites his lip, looking down, he swears there’s a wicked smile in the eyes of X6. X6 who doesn't change the pace at all, slow sucking Deacon into madness.

Deacon can't think anymore, all he knows is that he's at the mercy of a Courser in a way he never could imagine. Finally, X6 picks up the pace again, relentlessly, until Deacon becomes a panting, satisfied mess, his cum spread on his sweaty belly. Reflexively, he reaches for X6 to steady himself-- X6, who's really there, who really just did that to him.

X6, the Courser.

"I uh- thank you. That was great! To be honest, it was amazing." Deacon wobbles to his feet. "Imma... gonna get cleaned up." He says and needlessly disappears in the basement, mumbling something about needing fresh water from downstairs to wash up.

When he returns, the shadow is fully clothed, black coat and all.

"Oh. I see you couldn't wait to get dressed?" Deacon masks whatever he’s feeling in a far too believable cheer, awkwardly searching for his clothes.

"It seemed like our interaction had come to a natural conclusion."

Deacon can't help a pained smile at his choice of words. "Yeah. And you?" He nods at the shadow, or rather, the bulging erection he saw only a moment ago.

_ oh my god stop thinking about it-- _

"I'm fine."

Deacon slips into his clothes.

"You sure?" 

“Affirmative.”

It’s like the temperature in the room just dropped below freezing.

"Do you regret it?"

“Do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a link to the Shave and Haircut, two bits! tune  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dxU-SgOtVSM


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> X6 and Deacon are catching feelings, which leads to more awkward and regretful sex, but then the worst happens.

The next day, they intercept an unexpected radio message. Brotherhood orders are for all vertibirds to return back to base at Boston Airport. Deacon looks at the shadow by his side as they listen, sure whatever fickle arrangement they might have had, it ceases to have any use when the Brotherhood decides to abandon their plans to get the nuclear warheads.

Without hesitation X6 gets up to pack his gear and looks at Deacon. “This needs to be investigated.”

It’s decided, his shadow is gonna stick around a little longer. At least until they got confirmation on that intel. If they’re lucky, the Minutemen at the Castle can give them the information more or less voluntarily, sparing them the dangerous trip up to the Prydwen.

Setting out northwards, Deacon has to admit he has never felt safer wading through these cursed infested quagmires of the south. The Courser is an attentive travel companion with superior reflexes and perfect aim, swiftly taking out every threat before Deacon can even draw his pistol. It’s probably just the way Coursers navigate their surroundings, but Deacon likes to indulge himself in the fantasy that, maybe, X6 is trying to impress him a little bit.

Curiously, the Courser insists on giving a wide berth to any settlement or farm they pass by. When pressed for an explanation, all Deacon gets is a silent treatment.

_ With great power comes little social skill _ , Deacon amuses himself, but it is clear the Courser is hiding something.

“If we’re heading to the Castle, we should get you a new look.” Deacon says concerning the mended Courser leathers that at least now look less pristine. “It’s best if we go in as traders, a lot of those are coming through lately. You’ve ever done undercover infiltration?”

“I will not wear a disguise.”

“Look, there’s a merchant.” Deacon points the road ahead to the Castle. “I think that’s Lucas. He usually sells armor, but if we’re lucky he has a pair of sunglasses for you. Let’s shop.”

The Courser stops in his tracks. “It would be... inadvisable for me to approach them-” he cuts himself off like he wanted to add more but didn’t.

_ Oh shit _ .

Nobody would recognize a Courser if they saw one. Nobody but the Institute.

Or one of their informants.

There has never been any hard evidence apart from rumors. Deacon suspected there might be some truth in it. Now it’s obvious why Bunker Hill wasn’t meant to last as a Railroad support point and why Goodneighbor is still safe after all this time.

They arrive at the road leading down to the Castle, on the way swinging by one of the half collapsed houses where Deacon hid a trunk with disguises, containing the hat and shirt he wore as Minuteman recruit amongst other clothes. “You really don’t want to ditch your coat?”

“Affirmative.”

Maybe Deacon misjudged the Courser. Maybe it’s not just belief that drives him, maybe it’s a huge assload of ego atop of that too. He’s still proud of his Courser identity, hoping to return to the Institute one day.

“You will draw attention going in like this.” Deacon rummages through the assorted disguises. “Will Danse recognize you?”

“Possibly.”

“Why? Did you recall him?” Deacon’s tone is more accusatory than is healthy in front of a Courser.

“I had orders to retrieve him.” The Courser sounds defensive.

“And you follow orders.” It’s not a question.

“I always do.”

“Until you didn’t.”

In a sharp motion, the Courser turns away. “M7-97 is Institute property-”

“Same as you.” Deacon can’t help but cut him off. “So what, you stole yourself?”

It’s the last thing they talk. On the road down to the Castle, Deacon can hear the footsteps behind him slowly fade into another direction. There’s no doubt the Courser could have left without drawing any attention, but he chose not to. A final goodbye, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be polite. Slowly, the shadowy presence dissipates from Deacon’s consciousness, and his breath flows easy for the first time in weeks. 

No time to worry about a rogue Courser being loose in the Commonwealth. Not that he could do something about it anyway.

-

The most annoying thing about posing as a trader is having to ditch the nocturnal wake cycle. Deacon squints at the sun, a barely toned excuse of sunglasses on his nose. The Minutemen are stocking up on food supplies, entering the Castle as a trader is easy as pie. Too easy, he thinks, after what he has learned about travelling merchants and their flexible take on loyalty.

Sprawled out on some stones of the half collapsed fort wall behind him, Deacon leisurely chews on some razor grain and idly watches the hustle and bustle of the inner courtyard.

There’s Ronnie Shaw overseeing the expansion to the west of the Castle, wooden huts where a lake used to be, the land now dried and fortified, soon fit to store goods and house people.

Then there’s Preston Garvey, General of the Minutemen. It’s tough to get a glimpse of him. But from what Deacon can tell, he seems stressed.

And of course, there’s Danse, now Colonel Danse, yelling orders at green recruits and disciplining them like he was born to do it. Or made. Or whatever. M7-97 seems to build a pretty decent living for himself, respected by the recruits, loved by the General. Deacon knew he would bounce back eventually, the Paladin has always been a survivor.

The other synth that dropped in and out of Deacon’s life seems to be of similar sturdy make. Not even a Courser assassin sent to kill him could deter X6 from his belief in the Institute. If Desdemona knew Deacon cooperated with such a zealot, she would chase him away never to return, best case scenario. Carrington would probably just shoot him. Can’t blame him for that, though.

Deacon sighs and fumbles for a cigarette he can’t find. He idly waves over a travelling merchant to purchase another pack. “Always a pleasure.” The trader says, and Deacon nods, wondering if the Institute at least pays well.

  
  


Turns out, the Minutemen have no clue either why the Brotherhood suddenly turned cold on them. Preston is understandably furious.

Deacon travels the Commonwealth, trying to find out why the Brotherhood blew off their plans. Usually he’d have Railroad runners who would help gather intel, point him in the right direction. Deacon is tempted to try his luck with them regardless, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Desdemona changed security procedure as soon as she suspected her top spy was going rogue.

Maybe if he can come about proof that the Brotherhood is playing a foul game, the Railroad would take him back. But what for? Every synth who wanted to leave was freed. Well, almost every synth.

Z1-14 was lost to the Institute. What were the odds for Deacon and Danse to survive that encounter?

And of course, all the synth Coursers are still at the Institute. Well, almost all of them.

“Was that you back then, X6?” Deacon camps out in the wilderness talking to the night. “No one sees a Courser and lives to tell the tale, that used to be true.” There’s no shadow nearby to hear him. “But you took Z1 and left us alive. Why, tell my X6, why? Were you looking for Nora and thought maybe her friend Danse could lead you to her? Is that it?” Silence. It’s almost as if X6 were here, treating Deacon with one of his patented silences. He isn’t. 

Security at Boston Airport is unusually tight, there’s no getting in. After weeks of drifting the Commonwealth, Deacon is no step further than before. He returns to the Castle, in the hopes the Minutemen may have more luck in gathering intel.

After finishing the drill of the day, Danse is working late in the new housing district next to the Castle, the usual worksome insomniac. Watching him in the middle of the night organize the materials for the next day feels oddly soothing to Deacon. He’s hiding in one of the almost completed houses fondly built out of assorted salvage and new wood. It smells amazing of tree resin and optimism.

Deacon lights himself a cigarette and watches Preston join Danse on site. He’s neither wearing his General’s armor nor his hat, lending the gentle embrace he greets his lover with an intimate touch. They talk, whisper sweet secrets to each other, Deacon is too far away to make out their words. Preston guides Danse’s hands away from the construction materials and duties, kisses his knuckles and smiles a smile so sweet it makes Danse’s cheek blush in a peachy color. More secret words whispered into his lover’s ear, and the couple leaves with love and lust glimmering in their eyes.

The shadow of the building fully embraces him, Deacon’s existence reduced to a red glint of a dying cigarette. He allows himself to sigh. He’s not jealous, that’s not it. He has no time for that, it’s silly to begin with, and so he just decides against it, simple as that.

If only watching those lovebirds didn’t wake certain needs in him. He adjusts his jeans, flips away the end of his smoke and pulls out a new one. Suddenly, the dark around him feels different from before, swallowing him almost as if it was alive. He draws the lighter from his pocket, and for a moment it’s like the flame scares away the darkness around him.

“You know, it’s not polite to stare at people.” Deacon’s voice is not shaky when addressing the shadow in the room with him.

“I was simply watching you watching them.” The Courser’s shape breaks away from the surrounding darkness, blocking the only exit if Deacon doesn’t want to jump through the window. Which he definitely doesn’t.

With every step X6 takes in his direction, Deacon’s pulse is throbbing even harder in his neck. And in his pants. Ahh, shit.

“I wasn’t aware I scare you that much.”

“Told you I’m scared.”  _ Scared and fucking horny _ , Deacon thinks and tries to focus on the nicotine to calm him down. “So you just came here to spook me like the ghost of a Victorian maiden or what?”

X6 slightly cocks his head and raises an elegant eyebrow above the rim of his new sunglasses. A nervous chuckle emerges from deep in Deacon’s throat in response to the obvious confusion he caused.

A few noiseless steps, and the Courser is merely inches away. Deacon can’t suppress a gasp, barely registering the cigarette sliding from his fingers, staring at his own perplexed reflection in the shades. Warm hands ghost over his collarbones, coming to a rest on each side of his neck, and Deacon stops breathing. The Courser is not quite touching his skin, but the gesture, the imposing closeness, the thought of how easily a shadow like him could snap his neck-- it makes Deacon’s head spin.

“Stop.” He whispers almost inaudibly, and the Courser retreats his hands. Chuckling at his own pathetic reaction, Deacon staggers backwards. “What, you’re coming at me like this without even a safeword?” It’s ridiculous but it gives Deacon some of his courage back. “It’s fine, you scaring me and all that shit, but when I say, I dunno, ‘ _ Pineapples!’ _ you stop and I get a breather, that’s how it works, y’know.”

The demeanor of X6 looks as serious as ever, as if he was contemplating the things Deacon just said.

“You know what?” Deacon begins, “why not forget about pineapples and you scare me some more?”

With one hand X6 begins to caress Deacon’s neck, thumb gently landing on the adam’s apple that reflexively bops up when Deacon is gulping, the other arm is slung around his waist to keep the spy in place.

When Deacon touches the Courser, all he can feel is the cool leather of the coat. In search for warmth, Deacon tries to unzip it, only to be met with a strong hand stopping his wrist. The almost painful touch fades quickly when X6 releases Deacon to disrobe the coat himself, revealing his black shirt underneath.

Tracing firm strong pecs with Deacon’s feeling hand, it slides under the black shirt hungry for more warmth, diligently mapping out the area, indulging in what used to be a guilty day dream for so many weeks.

X6 slides a hand down Deacon’s chest, in passing feeling for the belly button, coming to a rest at the belt buckle and yanks the spy closer.

“You wanna…?”

“Affirmative.”

Deacon chuckles stupidly when X6 drops to his knees and undoes the belt.

“Lucky for you, I just took a bath this morning.”

“I know.”

The simple answer sends a wave of electricity through Deacon’s body. Whether the Courser watched him earlier in secret of whether he can tell from the scent of the soap they used to share, it does not matter. Much to Deacon’s surprise, the Courser completely ignores the throbbing length in front of his face and instead peels off Deacon’s pants completely. Another surprise when Deacon feels a finger covered in cold slimy goo purposefully finding a path between his buttcheeks.

Deacon yelps. “What the hell is that?”

“It will make things easier on you.”

With spread legs, Deacon is trying to keep his balance, holding onto the kneeling Courser beneath him. “I’m, ah-” he gasps, “I am familiar with the concept, just wondering how you conjured that up.”

“The General is not very thorough in hiding his stash.”

“Oh, you horny devil.” Deacon can’t help but snicker at the great disappointment that must await the two Minutemen lovebirds in their quarters at exact this moment.

Horny indeed, as Deacon learns quickly despite the dark. “Alright, this is happening.” Deacon gulps.

Face to face, Deacon is wedged between a wooden wall and a sweaty Courser holding him, moaning sweet sounds into each other’s ears. He’s being pushed further and further towards the edge, it feels like he’s flying, being held like this in strong arms-- strong, so strong,  _ X6 _ , he wants to say and groans instead, and lets his boneless body be caught by those strong arms.

They don’t speak a word when Deacon is slowly let down to his feet. Quietly, Deacon gets himself dressed, lights a cigarette, and in the brief glimmer of the fire, he notices the expression of X6 oddly changed.

“What was that?” X6 asks and sounds almost disturbed by his standards. “You screamed and tried to push me away. I had to hold you or you would have fallen.”

_ What _ .

“Don’t exaggerate. I just didn’t want you to stop. Do you know how hard I came?”

“I… noticed that.” X6 turns to pick up his coat but hesitates to put it on. “You say you enjoyed yourself. I can’t say the same about me.”

Something about these words makes Deacon’s heart stop. “Fuck.” He hisses.

“I think we just did that.”

“No, I mean-- damn.” Deacon will definitely roast in hell for sleeping with a Courser, again. Every fallen friend from Switchboard will stab him with scorching pitchforks for all eternity. And yet. It’s the Courser who seems shaken. “Are you… are you okay?”

“I am now. I propose to use the safeword next time.”

“A what now for when…? You want to keep doing this?”

The shadow remains still.

It’s a mistake and they both know it. “Why are you here anyway? Just to stalk me and urge yourself onto me?”

“I didn’t.”

“It’s not like anything good can come from this.”

More silence lingering in the dark, until the sound of X6 zipping up his leather coat breaks it. “I came here because I have a lead on Nora.”

-

It reeks of Mirelurk. Deacon lights a cigarette to mask the stench of the moldy building. No use. The other room over the Courser is trying to get a few answers out of Nora. She’s chained to a metal beam and making a lot of noise without saying all that much.

It looks all sorts of wrong.

So far the Courser has refrained from beating her up, but that might change very quickly. That’s at least what Deacon expects to happen from listening to X6 stoically repeating his questions over and over and over again. She begs for her life, pleads to be let go and swears to never return again. Finally, X6 joins Deacon in the other room.

“It’s pathetic.” 

“It’s human.” Deacon says, and something about these words finally makes the Courser snap.

He storms back into the cell and yanks Nora up on her feet, then just furiously stares at her. “I am going to destroy you.” X6 growls through gritted teeth and pushes her back to the ground.

“Easy there.” Deacon finally has to step into the cell to diffuse the situation before the interrogation ends prematurely by death.

“Deacon, is that you?” Nora slowly lifts her head. “Remember when I almost screwed up the countersign on my first op?” There’s a vicious smile on her face. “But you still wanted me to join you in the Railroad.”

_ Railroad _ .

This word hits Deacon like a lightning bolt. The Courser storms out of the room. Nora snickers on the floor, “I guess you haven't told your Courser buddy.”

_ Shit _ .

Peeking through the door, Deacon can see the Courser outside standing with his back turned to the building. Shoulders heaving in irregular breaths, the shadow shadkily leans against a dying tree, almost tipping over, retching.

Deacon shouldn’t stare, he should get the hell out of here. Just when he’s sucking in a silent breath, ready to turn his stealth boy to maximum, the Courser faces him, rifle aiming, firing. With a single shot, X6 kills the Mirelurk behind Deacon. The spy barely has time to catch his breath when X6 briskly walks towards him, bumping into his shoulder in passing.

“I hate it.” X6 powerfully kicks in the Mirelurk’s head, making the bulky body topple over and reveal its soft underside. “I hate these filthy creatures.” The bladed leg of the Mirelurk snaps under his boot. “I hate wading around in their  _ filth _ .” Goo and innards spill under relentless kicks. “Everything up here is  _ filthy _ .” A forceful kick separates the carapace from the creature and rolls down the slope, leaving a dark bloody trail on its way. “I just want to go home.”

Next thing, X6 makes a beeline for a mud pile and sends a Mirelurk egg in a splatter to the building’s wall. He doesn’t bother to wipe off the sludge on his clothes, and after a long minute, he turns to face Deacon who can only watch the spectacle.

“I knew you are Railroad.” X6 says. “I don’t fucking care.”

Still starstruck, all that stays with Deacon after X6 disappears back inside the building is the stench of Mirelurk hanging in the air.

-

It doesn’t make sense. Deacon could just up and run like he intended to a few moments ago. But what if there was a way to win over a Courser for their cause? That is, if the Railroad is willing to take him back. And is willing to give one of their mortal enemies a chance too.  _ Aw shit _ .

Nothing makes sense when Deacon enters the building again and finds the Courser closing down the door behind which Nora is kept. Nothing about her made sense back then too. She became a valuable asset, a confidant even.

She betrayed them both.

X6 leans in to speak into Deacon’s ear. “That prisoner,” his voice is but a whisper, “is not her.” He steps aside, “talk to her and tell me what you think.”

-

On their first big op, he brought her to Switchboard. It was a match made in heaven. She didn’t know any of the dead agents. She didn’t know the screams and shots. For her, this was another common tragedy, and like any other wasteland. She viewed it with the distance of a 200 year old frozen woman out of time. Her calm presences gave him the strength to sift through the bodies and terminals and save what was left to save.

That Nora, who should become agent Wanderer, had not betrayed him.

She had been replaced.

It is disappointing to see how quickly the imposter folds when confronted with that fact.

“So what if I’m not her!” Fake Nora yells, her face distorted to a grimace. “You are supposed to help synths, well here I am!”

Like on autopilot, Deacon watches himself back off and close the door on his way out. “How is that possible,” he mumbles tonelessly, “she knows things only the real Nora could know. Things I only ever told her.”

X6 doesn’t react.

As if the absence of a reaction needed a response, Deacon nods to himself. “Dinner.” He blurts out, “do you want some dinner? I’ll cook some dinner.” Time to function before dysfunction sets in. “I was thinking… Mirelurk?”

  
  


The omelette sizzles happily in a pan Deacon found on a dusty stove. Deacon endlessly tosses and turns thoughts in his mind. How long had she been replaced? Why does she know all these things? What tipped X6 off? What did Deacon miss? Why--

A Railroad spy, an Institute Courser and your best buddy’s imposter walk into a bar…

_ Nah, that’s not it _ .

‘Now we’re cooking’, the new family sitcom with a secret agent, his mysterious hot nemesis, and their adopted synth. The script has them argue every episode about this week’s ridiculous shit, but at the end they always sit down for dinner and make up again.

It runs at least five seasons. 

Absently, Deacon hums a made up title melody for the show while sprinkling some salt and pepper, and feels a little bit saner already. “Almost done here”, he calls out to X6 who’s brooding over by the window, “you like your yolk runny, yea?” No answer. “Have you had Mirelurk omelette before? Or, eggs?” Another question that goes unanswered, but at least now X6 walks over and joins him by the table where Deacon juggles with the pan to transfer a quarter each of the giant omelette onto two salvaged dishes. “Et voilà!”

Much to Deacon’s surprise, X6 devours that omelette, practically inhales it and asks for seconds.

“Thank you,” the Courser says, which comes as another surprise.

“You’re welcome.” The smile on Deacon’s face feels inappropriate and like a huge relief at once. “The food up here isn’t all bad, right? You’ll learn to love it.” Only now does Deacon realize how he’s fishing for the Courser’s approval, eager to find something that pleases him.

_ Silly spy man _ .

Thankfully, X6 is oblivious to all this. After dinner, he dismantles fake Nora’s pip boy, checking for any trackers or transmitters. “Something has to be done about the unit.” X6 says, “letting her go is not an option.” It’s rare for X6 to be so imprecise.

“What do you mean, you suggest killing her?”

“It’s the only solution.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Don’t tell me you are sentimental because her form resembles someone you knew.” The Courser scoffs.

“If it meant protecting people, I’d do what had to be done.”

“She’s a synth.”

“So what? Even some humans sell out to the Institute, and if they deserve to die, it is for what they do, not for what they are.”

The pip boy is in pieces now. The case, circuitry, and wiring all taken apart down to the tiniest screws. For a moment X6 stares at the neatly organized parts and seems lost. Then, he begins reassembling it with knowledgeable hands. “You could have left me to die back when you learned I am a Courser.”

“I could have left you to die of hunger just an hour ago.” Deacon says arm crossed and grinning like a tease.

For just a moment, Deacon thinks he sees a smile on the face of X6. They silently sit in each other’s company for a while before X6 speaks again.

“They did first tests in transferring memories.” He says. “I saw the data when I hacked into the mainframe. It was nowhere near being a reliable method. I learned that they had test subjects, but I never thought they would-- I never thought they would use  _ her  _ for that.”

“Transferred memories?”

It takes weeks for a new synth to be completed, X6 explains. Planting extensive memories worth a lifetime is almost impossible. “They begin with the most recent ones, or very strong emotional experiences.” After that, the trouble shooting begins. “Once a synth is dead they turn into very expensive bio waste. That is why research in that field never made much progress. Fatality rate of the test subjects was 100%. At least until now.”

“How did you know?”

“I had my doubts back when we saw her the first time. She seemed uncharacteristically frightened. I observed her for a while, but when she seemed to know you, I had no reason to doubt her identity. I realized when she kept begging for her life. The real Nora would never be so… pathetic.”

Deacon huffs in response. Human beings do a lot to stay alive; lie, steal, plead, murder. A garden variety of human behaviors. But it changes nothing about the facts. “What do you think happened to the real Nora?”

X6 pauses before closing the case of the wiped pip boy.

“I cannot imagine a single reason for the Institute to keep her alive.”

-

They both notice at the same time. Footfalls outside, humanoid, four, no, five people. Closing in. 

They think of themselves as the good guys and expect most people to react friendly to them. Still, it is astounding with how much noise the Minutemen waltz through the Commonwealth. Leading them on is heavy bird Paladin Danse himself, nowadays wearing his light Colonel plumage. 

Deacon and X6 could easily use their stealth boys and bug out. But that means leaving behind imposter Nora, and she still might have answers.

“You sneak up on their backs, I will take them from the flank.” X6 readies his gear and expectandly looks at Deacon.

“Absolutely not.” There’s no time to discuss the ticking time bomb that is the encroaching Minutemen party. “Don’t shoot Danse. Or anybody. I’ll be sad.”

“I will defend myself though.”

  
  


The Minutemen spread out and check the surrounding area in perfect accordance with Brotherhood protocol.

“Lovely day, innit?” With his sunglasses and shawl wrapped around Deacon’s head, he looks nothing like the green recruit and deserter Danse knows him as. “What brings a squad of fine Minutemen here?”

“You live here?” The Colonel inquires. 

“Aye, made it ma home jus’ yesterday.”

“We are looking for raiders, possibly kidnappers.”

“Haven’ seen no raiders here.”

Danse studies Deacon with obvious suspicion. “You won’t mind then if we sweep the building.”

“Actually, I do.”

“And why is that?”

“You guys look pretty grim with ya hands twitchin’ to reach for your muskets. Didn’ know Minutemen were scary now.” It does the trick. Danse signs his squad to stand back.. “Thank you, Colonel…?”

“Danse.”

“Thank you, Colonel Danse. Ma name’s Pete, an’, to tell you the truth, I’m here with my girl, an’… y’know.” ‘Pete’ smiles like a happy loaf.

The act seems to work, the hard edge in Danse’s expression disappears. “I will confirm that with her. Where is she?”

“About that…” Deacon plays the embarrassed but proudly scoring suitor, “She’s not, uh decent, as of the moment, if ya know what I mean-”

“Still, I’d like to check on her personally.”

Danse being a persistent pest was not part of the plan.

“I’m not a girl.” It’s a smooth voice from inside the house. “The only indecent thing here is this man being ashamed of being with me.”

Danse listens attentively and nods. “That’s a very old-fashioned way of viewing things, but I’m not surprised by this show of character.” He says with disgust aimed at ‘Pete’. “Sir, are you alright then being left in his questionable  _ company _ ?”

“Affirmative.” X6 replies, and maybe there’s something in the way he says it, but Deacon can almost see the tiny cogs turn in Danse’s head. There is this small, terrifying chance the Paladin remembers the voice that once recalled him.

“I will come check in on you right now and verify all this, be prepared.” Danse stares down ‘Pete’ and then nods at his squad to stay on guard.

_ Oh shit _ .

Danse is gonna go in there and he’s gonna recognize the Courser uniform or maybe he doesn’t and X6 shoots him in the face before he’s even in the room and then Deacon has to kill a couple bystanding Minutemen--

“Stop!” Deacon yells in his own voice, “Stop it, Danse. You don’t have the full picture and you’ll do things everyone regrets.”

Everything happens so fast. Deacon can only yell “Don’t shoot!”, both at X6 and the Minutemen who are storming in, before Danse tackles Deacon into the wall spewing insults at him, but Deacon doesn’t hear him, doesn’t hear any shots fired from indoors, Danse just sends him to the ground with hard punch in the guts.

“You stay put.” Danse disarms Deacon and steps inside.

Time is a curious thing. Sometimes years and even decades feel like flying by within a blink. On different occasions, a single second can stretch out and age you for years. That is, if you survive it. A single crucial second has the power to make and destroy lifes.

Lying on the ground, Deacon can glimpse through the open door. Danse’s face frozen in horror, several Minutemen pointing their guns at a corner Deacon can’t see.

Two people who never were his friends about to kill each other.

“Danse! Stop!”

There’s a new voice from the backroom.

It’s Nora.  _ Synth  _ Nora. It doesn’t matter what she is.

Danse stops.

-

It’s after nightfall when they sit at a campfire in front of the house. Danse, X6, Deacon, ‘Nora’, and the four Minutemen. Fake Nora makes charming conversation with the Minutemen who are oblivious about the synth density of their present company. With a deep frown, Danse is eyeballing the Courser and the spy even after he heard the colorful story ‘Nora’ had told about her supposed rescue by Deacon and his ‘friend’. She tells of a breathtaking adventure how she managed to escape the Institute’s fangs only to be captured by raiders and then abandoned in this building.

It’s ludicrous storytelling at best, but it does the job, Deacon has to give her that.

When the group is busy grilling Mirelurk remains for dinner, Deacon notices his shadow wandering off into the dark.

“Not a big fan of the fishy smell, huh?” Deacon cautiously tests the waters. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You know you should leave the obfuscation to us professionals.” Deacon jokes good-naturedly, then turns mellow. “Talk to me, X. It’s not like either of us can be picky about our company right now.”

“It’s disgusting to watch. That unit is not her.”

Deacon nods. Too many agents the Railroad lost like this.

“Do you have any idea what her existence means?” X6 continues. “It’s not just a few people who oppose Father and his legacy. No. Expansive personnel from all science divisions had to be involved in her creation.” X6 isn’t the type to gesticulate while talking, now his curt movements are cutting the air. “ _ Every single division _ . You may not care about that. But I do.” His shoulders are heaving in erratic breathing.

“I’m not a fan of the Institute, but… I do care. I mean-,” Deacon sighs in defeat. Who is he kidding? Trying to cheer up a Courser must sound phony no matter what. “They’ve let you down, just like everyone else in the Commonwealth.”

“I left because of her.” Bottled up words spill from the Courser. “I could only leave because of her. I knew she had a plan. And now? I don’t know what to do next. I’ve always known what to do next.”

“It’s scary. Terrifying even. And it takes time, a lot of time. But you will figure it out, eventually.” A mild breeze rustles through the dry twigs. It’s too dark to get a good read on X6, but his shape now seems less fuzzy around the edges.

“Your gamble with the Minutemen was a disaster.” X6 says.

Deacon huffs a laugh. “You think so? I’d say we’re all alive and kickin’.”

The clouds of the night sky wander off to make place for dim moonlight. Deacon catches a smile on the shadow’s face. It’s adorable.

“Whatever you decide to do,” Deacon says, “I hope we don’t end up on opposite sides again.”

The smile ceases as quickly as it came. “I don’t think that can be prevented.”

“Why?”

“Would you just watch if I hunted down the enemies of the Institute?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. A fraud and a liar could never understand my reasoning.” The voice of X6 is cold, but not mean. It’s factual. And true. “Your opinion is worthless. It seems to me like you betray your allies sooner or later anyway.”

Suddenly Deacon is acutely aware of Colonel Danse sitting over at the campfire, watching the two of them from afar like a hawk.

“Listen…” Deacon takes a helpless step forward only to find himself wondering what he’s going to argue.

“I am listening.” X6 retorts with irritation, but closing in a step all the same.

The sky above them seems so vast before gentle clouds cover the stars again and Deacon grabs the hand of X6, his fingers unfeeling but determined. They disappear into the black, unseen by any prying eyes, the spy leading his shadow up up up the slope, just in time for the clouds to scurry away and reveal the crisp outline of the thin moon again.

They stand next to each other, holding hands, a dysfunctional limb on one side, a thick leather glove on the other. Still, the distance between them impossible to bridge.

The ground under his feet feels unreal like the rest of his surroundings, but when Deacon shifts his weight and his shoulder brushes the one of X6, it’s almost as if he regained sensation in his arm. “I just wish… things could be different. Between us.” He gulps despite his dry throat.

His shadow nods, eyes fixed on the silver crescent. 

Almost idle, Deacon adjusts his glasses with his feeling hand, turns to X6 and sees he’s watching. So close, his ever following shadow whose shades keep reflecting back at him. Deacon’s hand reaches out to feel the warmth of his skin, gently caressing the side of his face, his thumb tracing the lower lip.

Strong arms pull Deacon closer, a hot breath ghosting over his neck when X6 almost shyly begins to nibble. “You’re dirty.” He says and licks the pale skin.

Deacon huffs a chuckle. “Not a soap in the world to wash that off.” His hand roams the cool surface of the leather coat, sliding into a pocket in search of warmth. Instead, he finds a small jar and grins. “Look at that, courtesy of the General. You wanna-”

“Yes.”

Deacon grins.

“But keep your voice down this time.” X6 adds.

“How about we find out how quiet you can keep in my place.” Deacon pulls X6 closer and suggestively grinds his crotch.

“I was made for silent ops.”

X6 takes off his coat to cover the grass and lies down on it. Deacon can’t help but paw the shirt and pants off of him the second he’s on the ground, muscles accentuated in the blue moonlight. His Courser is gorgeous and willing, Deacon feels like dying from that thought alone. 

“I assume you have some… expertise?” Deacon asks teasingly.

“I do.”

One hand is innocently caressing the smooth skin of the firm abs, while Deacon uses his other to bring the lube to good use. Smoothly in and out, he adds another finger, allowing himself a pleased hum. X6 is twitching under his touch, the heat visibly rising in his body, but very much to Deacon’s discontent staying as silent as he promised to be. “Take off your glasses.” The spy asks and the Courser complies. Needy gray eyes flutter shut, and only when the flesh under him squirms a certain way does Deacon notice something’s off, stopping his unfeeling hand from stretching X6.

As gentle as possible, he retreats, and softly squeezes the thigh of X6 with his feeling hand. “You ok? Perhaps I got carried away. X6?”

With the crook of the arm covering his face, X6 just lies there.

“Did I go too far, are you hurt?”

_ Stupid greedy fuck _ .

“X6, talk to me?”

“I’m fine.” The words sound pressed.

“You know I can tell you’re lying.” Deacon sighs at his insensitive comment and softly strokes X6’s leg. “I’m sorry. I should have noticed.”

“I was fine. And then I wasn’t.”

“You can always tell me to stop.”

Deacon scoots up to lie next to X6, careful not to touch him without being told to. The silence between them is different from usual. It’s not l like X6 doesn’t want to talk, it feels more like he desperately wants to express something he doesn’t know how.

“I didn’t know what to say.” X6 finally replies peeking from under his arm.

“Just say stop. Or pineapples, or whatever.”

Quietly, X6 pulls up his pants and tugs on his coat for Deacon to get up as well.

“I mean it. Just say the word, any word, and I’ll back off.” Deacon continues, “I mean, not to guilt-trip you or anything. I should have noticed you were uncomfortable, and I-”

“Pineapples.” X6 interrupts. “I am fine now. Please stop talking.” He says dryly but with a smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

-

They take a detour via the creek and join the group again at the campfire, deliberately ignoring the daggers Danse is shooting at them with his eyes.

It’s an otherwise lively atmosphere of jokes and stories, and two of the younger Minutemen urge Nora to tell some exciting war tales. Colonel Danse waves them down. “Nora, you must be exhausted. No need to indulge their juvenile curiosity.”

“It’s alright, Danse. I have stories.” Nora says, shooting a glance at X6 and Deacon. “So many stories to tell.”

_ Things can’t ever be easy, can they? _ Deacon never expected to be blackmailed by a synth impersonating an over 200 years old popsicle from a vault. And yet, stranger things have happened.

“Where to begin…?” Nora overplays her musing tone like an amateur, but Deacon knows people only see what they want to see. Especially Danse. One of the Minutemen suggests she talk about Mass Fusion, the last time she was seen before she went missing.

“What a great idea.” Her eyes pierce through X6 like lasers, a detail which Deacon catches with interest. “There’s so much to tell about that mission.”

And so she tells her epic tale about the Brotherhood’s attack on Mass Fusion, Danse’s posture visibly swelling in pride hearing about Vertibirds dropping off fully armed Power Armor squads.

“I finally reach the chamber and pry the security gate open with the bare hands of my red Paladin armor, my Geiger going crazy. From outside, I can hear gunfire encroaching. The Institute! I grab the Beryllium Agitator, about as large as molerat den mother, put it into a sturdy lead case and make for my exit. That’s when I see  _ him. _ ” Nora pauses for dramatic effect. “A single Courser standing there, waiting to cruelly take my life and steal the Agitator.”

Deacon can see X6 frown under his sunglasses.

“But I’m not going down without a fight, oh no. But that’s for another time. Long story short,” she slaps her palms onto her thighs, “next thing I know I’m on the run from the Institute. I manage to hide the Agitator before they catch me. I’ll show you where it is once the Institute is gone!”

An incredulous murmur travels through the group. Ever since the Institute’s radio broadcast, everyone in the Minutemen has been convinced the boogeyman has access to this virtually endless energy source. Deacon smirks to himself. He’s sure the imposter lady glossed over a few details, but this piece of information confirms all his theories.

Amidst the vigorous discussion, X6 gets up and wanders away into the dark. Tailing him is a certain Colonel.

“Where are you stealing away again?” Danse interrogates him.

With a swift motion, X6 turns to face him. “That is none of your concern.” He sounds impatient. “Are you saying I am your prisoner? Don’t be ridiculous.”

The Colonel tenses up, ready to reach for his rifle. “I am not afraid of you,  _ Courser _ .” He hisses. “I’m not letting you go without some answers.”

“Don’t make me laugh, unit.” The Courser’s voice ice cold. “I would have killed you all without breaking a sweat if it wasn’t for your friend here.” X6 nods at the trees sitting in the dim moonlight. Danse doesn’t avert his eyes from the Courser until he hears rustling closing in on him. “Isn’t that right, Deacon?” X6 adds.

Danse’s look is utterly disgusted.

“  _ ‘Deacon’? _ ” Danse pronounces the word with painful precision. “You have the audacity to step under my eyes with a fake name repeatedly, but you tell this abomination your real one?”

“None of my names are real, Danse. Listen,” Deacon takes a friendly but cautious step towards Danse, “there are a lot of facts you don’t know yet. Don’t judge prematurely. If not for my sake, then for Nora’s.”

Danse sizes up the Courser one last time, then eases his stance. “For Nora’s sake, I’ll let it go this time.” He turns and leaves.

  
  


“You okay?” Deacon asks as soon as Danse is out of earshot.

“You keep acting like I’m weak.”

“You’re not.” Deacon deems it best to change the subject matter, “we need to figure out how to deal with Nora.”

“Keeping her alive is a risk.”

“She saved our hides.”

“Not killing her is what caused this situation in the first place-”

“No, we can’t.” Deacon interrupts. “Not with Danse sticking around. He’ll become suspicious.”

X6 studies him with mild surprise. “This should be an easy enough stealth job.”

“No, that's not… ah. Danse will blame me. And hate me forever.”

“Even if the current situation permitted the luxury of taking his feelings into account, she’s only a replica. Besides, I don’t think your relationship with him can be salvaged.”

“Well thanks for that.” Deacon kicks a stone into the shrubbery. “You’re really great at pep talks, do they make all Coursers like that or is that an acquired skill?-” Deacon stops to look at an impassive X6. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean to make fun of… you know. The way you came into existence. That was a shitty thing to do.”

X6 cocks his head. “You keep apologizing to me,” he says, “I don’t think anybody ever did that.”

_ Oh _ .

“Are you sure then,” Deacon snaps, “are you sure these… these unapologetic asshats deserve you?”

The face of X6 is unmoving like a mask.

“Are they worth crawling around in the filth for? Are they worth having to fight off their assassins for?” And finally, “Are you sure they are worth hiding the Beryllium Agitator for?” 

Deacon didn’t plan for this to turn into a manipulative interrogation. But it did. 

Like it is his habit, the Courser silently leaves the conversation. And so Deacon remains alone, the distant light of the morning sun breaking through the darkness.

  
  


Logically, there is absolutely no reason Deacon can think of why X6 shouldn’t simply shoot fake Nora and disappear into the twilight of the dawn. The Courser has the skill, the gear, and more than the grit needed to do it. No one would even notice a thing until it’s too late.

The Courser walks back to the camp, then past it, the spy keeping his eyes glued to him until Danse stops Deacon for a talk.

  
  


A minute later, Deacon finds X6 up on the hill near the camp, watching the sun rise over the sea in the distance.

“Everyone’s heading out.” Deacon says in a weak excuse for talking to him.

“It’s dangerous to travel during the day.”

“You tell them. Danse said those who object should stay behind.” Deacon watches X6 watch the horizon. “Listen…” Deacon starts, “I don’t think she’ll make any trouble.”

“But you think I will. Is that why you’re following me?”

“No.” It’s getting painfully hard to ignore that any of this is only happening because X6 allows it. “I think we should stick around. Gather more information.”

“You don’t get it, do you.” X6 sharply turns to Deacon. “She’s an infiltrator. A soldier. A synth. They don’t get any more information than absolutely required to fulfill their mission.” It’s rare for X6 to speak with so much anger. As quickly as it flared up, the fire dies down again. “Will you attack me if I kill her?” X6 asks almost with a somber voice. “She is a synth and you are Railroad.”

Deacon cocks his head trying to piece together what kind of assumptions the Courser might have about Railroad ethics. “We both know I wouldn’t be able stop you even if I tried.”

“That is not the point.” X6 explains. “Would you still try?”

“No use in dying for that.” Deacon muses, “Also no use in killing her yet, is what I think.”

The Courser lifts an eyebrow. “I do not understand. She is a synth. Wouldn’t you want to protect her existence in any case?”

“Just because she’s a synth? No. If she turns out to be a danger, I’d do what I have to do. Same with any human or ghoul or whatever.”

X6 seems puzzled and looks as if Deacon had said Brahmins only have one head. “So the reason you haven't attacked me isn’t because of some twisted love for synths?”

There’s no helping it, Deacon erupts into a liberating laughter. “No, I don’t feel any particular love for synths. Twisted or otherwise.”

“Then why do you help them?”

“Nobody else does.” Deacon turns serious again. “And they deserve to have a chance in life, just like everybody else. Also,” he adds with a cocky smirk, “In the past, I may or may not have schemed your untimely demise. But I’d really appreciate it a hell of a lot if that wasn’t necessary.”

“I don’t understand you, Deacon.”

“Nobody does.”

The sun is shining in a deep golden light where the moon used to be a couple hours ago. It reminds Deacon of the intimacy they shared last night, the hurt he caused. The unbearable vulnerability of both men and synths.

“I want to try something.” X6 closes in, reaching out to hold Deacon’s face. The world turns upside down when the Courser kisses Deacon’s lips, and it turns again when the spy kisses him back.

Then, the world turns once more. Irrevocably.

On the horizon, far far in the distance, an atomic cloud pierces further and further into the sky as if it wanted to swallow the whole world.

And then it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if i should how to rate this, since there isn't much going into detail I tagged it as mature and not explicit?


	4. Chapter 4

Ever since Deacon had been a kid, a hell of a long time ago, he had been obsessed with the pre-war world. A world full of lush green summers and spectacular autumns, food that smelled heavenly and tasted even better, with music everywhere and the constant reassurance of being one of the good guys. 

A world in technicolor and stereo sound, always with a happy ending.

In Deacon’s little mind, it was the fault of the bombs for destroying this magical wonderland for innocent people. Back before the war, when Good People still existed.

A place so different from his own reality, it made him long for something he never had experienced.

It is silly, really. Deacon hasn’t thought about his childhood in years, and he doesn’t intend to make it a habit now.

But that’s what firsthand witnessing Total Atomic Annihilation does to you. Well, not  _ total _ Total Atomic Annihilation. Just an explosion huge enough to send a tremor through the earth’s crust, irradiate the Commonwealth for a while, and probably cause a nuclear winter.

Or maybe not. No more nuclear physicists around to ask.

  
  


Deacon is wildly hammering on a bent lever, the sound reverberating in the cold corridor. He has been volunteered to help Sturges fix the water supply of the vault. Probably because he once impressed a certain Courser by repairing a water purifier in a jiffy. Seems like he’s the designated Water Boy now.

Giving up on the lever, he hits it a few more times until it’s curved like a pretzel, still not budging. It’s a nuisance.

Deacon doesn’t mind the vault, doesn’t mind being underground. He doesn’t get claustrophobic like some people do. Unlike them, he likes his world small and manageable.

What he doesn’t like is this particular godforsaken vault 111. A number as if the people designing the place were either drunk, trying to reinvent evil, or just very unoriginal. Another thing he’s not too fond of is having to share this cramped shelter not only with creepy cryopods but also with an explosive (pun intended) composition of people ranging from Sanctuary settlers, to several Minutemen, a Colonel, a Courser, and a synth imposter. Aaand, not to forget the deadly level of irradiation outside that makes leaving impossible

It’s a fucked up party in a fucked up world.

“Hey there, would ya mind me taking over?” It’s Sturges and his godly patience, examining the bent metal pretzel that finally gave in and broke.

“Sure.” Deacon scoots over. “The thing wouldn’t do the thing, so I took the thing apart and replaced a few things.”

The thoughtful eye of the handyman studies his work, testing the makeshift apparatus for its stability. “I don’t think replacing it was necessary, but you did a good job, I have to admit.”

“I am full of surprises.” Deacon replies dispassionately.

  
  


It’s mostly thanks to Sturges that the water processing is up and running again, but Deacon did his part and now feels free to check in on the other groups working to make the vault more hospitable.

Namely, he’s searching for a certain Courser. X6 isn’t quite the teamplayer, to put it mildly, but then again Deacon isn’t either, but he’s curious how he’s holding up. 

So far, the vault is only running on emergency power, which the evil pre-war buffoons needlessly wired to prioritize the creepy cryopods.

  
  


Deacon finds his shadow leaning next to a wall terminal. If he has noticed Deacon, he’s ignoring him. “I say it once more: this won’t work.” The Courser speaks into the adjacent room scattered with tools and dismantled parts.

“Proper diligence is key.” With this answer, ex-Paladin Colonel Danse emerges from behind a panel in the wall.

“I cannot believe I have to urge a member of the Brotherhood to use brute force.”

“ _ Former _ member of the Brotherhood, you freak.”

“I’ll try to remember that, unit.”

“Don’t you dare call me that!” Danse hectically looks around if any of the others heard that.

“Now isn’t that quaint,” Deacon can’t help remark, “you two getting along.” 

Different from last time the good Paladin punched him in the face, Deacon sees the blow coming. He doesn’t even attempt to dodge. Another remarkable difference is that this time the iron fist gets caught by a swift shadow.

The Courser stares down the Colonel before releasing him.

“You are done here. I’ll do the rest with Nora.” Danse orders them around as if he had any authority.

After a bit of coaxing, Deacon gets X6 to pack up his tools and leave with him.

“Danse worked hard to build that new identity of his. Be good.”

“Be good?”

“Yeah, I heard it works wonders.”

X6 huffs. “You would have deserved that punch.”

The Shadow shoos him away to work alone in peace, and Deacon continues wandering the corridors.

  
  


How long until the worst is over? Days? Weeks?

Some of the settlers from Sanctuary try to make themselves useful by taking inventory. Following Danse’s orders, they brought enough old world preserves to make them last for months. At least the supply of horrible food items is guaranteed.

Some of the more crafty people try making the centuries old vault more functional again, others are recovering from the radiation sickness. There aren’t enough beds for all of them, they sleep in shifts.

So far things seem quiet and orderly given the devastating circumstances they find themselves in, but soon people will notice the failing air filters and then, one by one, cabin fever sets in. It always does.

  
  


There’s enough work to do. Deacon and Sturges are in the middle of troubleshooting the water purifier, when with a sudden snap, all lights die down.

Frightened shrieks echo through the cold corridors.

“What the heck just happened.” Sturges turns on a flickering torchlight and hands it to Deacon, himself using a helmet light. “I’m going to the power room. Maybe you can check on the settlers?”

Deacon agrees, impressed by the genuine cool Sturges keeps despite everything. 

Over at the community room where most the settlers were before the outage, Deacon is welcomed with huge relief over the light he’s carrying. He leaves them the torch and swaps it for the meager light of a candle, but advises the settler not to light any more open fires.

Damn air vents not functioning puts them on a race.

Walking through the halls, Deacon is looking for more settlers who have been trapped by the darkness. A darkness so black as it can only be fourteen storeys beneath the surface.

In passing Deacon notices a dim green light one of the cryopod rooms. Nobody answers when he’s calling.

There’s a row of shelled pods on each side. The green light is coming from the far corner. Deacon steps into a puddle of water. The cryo pods are thawing. “Hello? Somebody there?” In the flickering light of the candle, Deacon can see human shapes inside the pods, water droplets forming on the glass.

  
  


Behind the last pod, cowering on the steps, is Nora, no,  _ Synth  _ Nora, the light of her pip boy tinting her shape in sickly green, hiding her face in shivering hands.

She looks up with defiance in her eyes.

“I thought you were crying.” He says.

“I am programmed not to.”

“Are you?”

“No, you dummy. That’s not how it works.”

She’s neither making a move to leave, nor explaining her disheveled presence in this dreadful place. 

“Didn’t you work with Danse on the power grid?” He finally asks.

She averts his gaze and flips through the menus in her pip boy, making the light flicker. “Oh, I tried.” She says in a mocking tone. “But I guess when they implanted those stinky rank memories they forgot to also transfer the according skill set. Danse thinks I can do things I can clearly not.”

“Don’t try to make me pity you.”

She studies him, then scoffs. “You’re so paranoid you don’t even see the obvious.” She says and nods to herself. “You’re so self-absorbed, you’re running fresh out of friends, my friend.”

“While you’re making a whole bunch of new ones. Or maybe not, after this energy disaster.” He replies, studying her face. She really looks just like her. 

“Aw, c’mon now.” Her tone is teasing. “You could be one of them. I saved your asses. I didn’t need to do that, but I did.”

“Yeah. Why?”

Fake Nora’s fake smile is wiped from her face immediately. “Just… looking for a few more friends.” 

“I wonder what your  _ other  _ friends would think about that.”

“Screw them.” She says with a grimaced face. “I don’t need them anymore.”

“Or they you.”

She stares at him. “Whatever. For all we know, they could be blown into oblivion. Not that it matters.” She busies herself with the pip boy. “I am my own woman now. I want you to know that.”

“Duly noted.”

  
  


Not long after Deacon has returned to check in on the settlers enduring the darkness with only little illumination, there’s a commotion down from the power room. It’s Danse's voice, yelling, then the noise of fists thumping against metal.

When Deacon arrives, there are all the Minutemen assembled, trying to pry open a metal door, Danse uncharacteristically cursing in the effort.

“Look what your questionable choice of friends brought us!” Danse yells at Deacon when he notices him. “He locked us out of the power room!”

“Wait a minute.” Deacon speaks up. “He got in there  _ after  _ the power went down? It wasn’t him who caused the outage?”

Danse has to begrudgingly agree, and even adds, “He said he’ll fix it.”

“Fix it? Then where’s the problem?” Deacon shrugs.

“He locked us out of the damn room!” Danse repeats with emphasis.

“He probably just wanted to work in peace, away from your-” Deacon is about to make another regrettable remark, when suddenly the illumination returns. There’s an enthusiastic cheer to be heard from the community room.

  
  


It’s hours until the power supply is steady and X6 emerges from the belly of the beast. He silently seals the door behind him and ignores all of Danse’s demands to explain how he managed to provide them with an overabundance of energy. The settlers don’t care much about those details and thank this nameless stranger as he walks by. The Courser stops and seems unsure about what to reply when being thanked. It must be a rare occurrence in the Courser’s life to be met with sympathy by random surface dwellers. Or by anyone, really.

It is the second sleepless night, or day, who knows?, for both of them when Deacon follows X6 to the massive vault door where the decontamination chamber is located. Restlessly, the shadow busies himself with work. He seems even more taciturn than usual, ignoring all of Deacon’s idle questions about the specific names of tools he’s using or what color bedsheets he’d prefer. 

“Do you think the Brotherhood blew up the Institute?”

The possible explanations for the nuclear explosion are virtually endless, this is just one of them. Once again, Deacon’s question goes unanswered.

With all efforts to chat him up failing, Deacon eventually gives in to his exhaustion and falls asleep leaning on one of the decontamination pipes.

  
  


The blaring siren signalling the opening of the massive vault door wakes Deacon. Courser leathers draped over him.

A new morning, probably, has broken and the world still exists. Colonel Danse is heading out to scout the vicinity in the power armor he wisely brought from Sanctuary when they fled into the vault. One of the Minutemen urges the Colonel to take him along, but Danse shuts him down quickly. The severity of the surface contamination is still unclear and a hazmat suit might not be enough to hold off the radiation.

Deacon ignores the arguing Minutemen and roams the vault in search of X6, desperate to return his coat. Walking around with the Courser’s clothing slung over his arms feels… intimate, and forbidden, like it gave away something secret about their relationship. The settlers sure don’t care, but Deacon feels uncomfortable to be seen carrying around the personal item of the Courser. 

Sure, he just could have left it in the chamber, but it would feel like another undue betrayal on his part in a long chain of undue betrayals. For X6, these Courser leathers are all that is left of the Institute, travelling the wasteland in them, living in them, killing in them. Like a materialized essence of his whole being.

Deacon finds him sleeping in the storeroom, a blanket loosely slung around, his head resting on a bag. His features are soft, the sunglasses folded next to him. Noiselessly, Deacon puts the folded coat next to the Courser and lets him sleep.

“Deacon.” There’s this smooth voice that sends shivers down his spine.

“Yeah?”

X6 sits up and Deacon sits down. They just are like this for a moment, Deacon recognizing the type of silence as the one the shadow needs to find his words.

“Did you give that name yourself, Deacon?”

“I did.”

“It never occured to me that one could do that.”

X6 studies Deacon’s face.

“Is it true that you also gave yourself that face?”

“Well, I didn’t do that by myself. There’s services for that.”

Without the shades, the eyes of X6 are so emotive. Or maybe it’s because it’s just the two of them.

“I didn’t know surface world medicine could do that.”

“I guess you keep learning new stuff about the surface world, right? Or, underground-surface world, given that we’re a hundred feet deep in the earth.” Deacon chuckles just for the sake of it.

“Is this how you betray all of your friends or is that Minuteman an exception?”

Deacon averts his eyes. Silly, the spy letting himself be interrogated.

It’s bound to end disastrously.

“Stick around long enough and maybe you’ll see.”

X6 looks at him earnestly. “I am not going anywhere.”

“Right.” Deacon is trying to ignore the meaningful tone. “This contraption is quite the trap- I mean. There’s toxicity on the surface, and… well, a different kind of toxicity underneath it as well.”

“Is that what this is to you?”

“Are we still talking about the vault?”

“What else would we be talking about?”

“True.”

  
  
  


When Danse returns from the surface he brings with him the farmer family from Abernathy as well as a new challenge for the decontamination chamber.

Deacon prays Desdemona was spooked enough by his disappearance that she switched HQ again. The six storey building of Ticonderoga might not have been sturdy enough to survive a blast wave that must’ve been much stronger than up here in the north.

_ Always told her that underground was the only way to go, goddamnit _ .

Danse also brings sobering news. Rad storms on the surface cause interference on all radio channels, making communication with the Castle or or other settlements impossible. For the first time in a long while Deacon feels like fiddle music would actually soothe his mind.

With the Abernathys, new rumors enter the vault. The family’s daughter saw the explosion going off while she was doing repairs high up on the old transmission tower under which their home is located. She broke a leg trying to climb down in a hurry. Following her account, the explosion wasn’t in Cambridge but much farther away down south. Many miles away from the CIT under which the Institute is located.

Which means, the Institute might still be there, but it also means more people on the surface had a chance of survival if the explosion went off far away from the populated parts of the Commonwealth.

  
  


After everyone has left the decontamination chamber, X6 stays to do some maintenance. It’s soothing for Deacon to take his spot in the corner and watch him. X6 doesn’t acknowledge his presence in the slightest, but he doesn’t seem bothered either. He seems diligent and focused. Almost at ease.

“So… you think the Institute is still out there?” Deacon asks.

“Ideally, yes.”

“But we don’t know for sure. What would you do if it was gone?”

“I see no benefit in marvelling about such a regrettable scenario without confirming it first.”

“You’ve got to have a backup plan though.”

X6 halts his motions and sets down his tool. “The day the Institute perishes will be regrettable for all of the human race. You are ignorant for being so eager to see it gone.”

“Tell me then about the marvels of the Institute.”

X6 sits up and begins to talk, visibly proud of the Institute’s achievements. “With technology of the Institute, nobody would have to starve anymore. Most sicknesses will be unheard of.”

“If that’s the case, why doesn’t the Institute share these technologies?”

“The people of the surface aren’t worthy yet.”

“You have to be worthy of getting to eat?”

X6 frowns and returns to his task for a long while before he speaks again. “You want the Institute gone because you disagree with them, even for the price of irrevocably losing unique technology and genius.”

“I don’t advocate for mass murder, if that’s what you’re getting at. Not me, nor does the Railroad. But powerful technology like the Institute’s will always be misused, no matter who has it. That’s why it has to be destroyed.”

“You mean misused technology like me.”

Deacon is hit by that, he has to admit to himself. “You are not to blame for what the Institute did.”

  
  


There is a figure standing in the doorframe, bulky, but not as bulky as he was an hour ago. Without his power armor, Danse can’t hide his nervousness seeping through his determined expression.

“I came here to thank you… X. Or whatever your name is.” Danse begins, “good work on the decontamination. It saved us.”

“I don’t need your praise.” X6 replies, “but it is acknowledged. And,” X6 adds, “as a former member of the Brotherhood, you must understand the value of technology. Tell me, how did you intend to justify bombing the Institute?”

Danse is shocked even though he must have suspected the Courser knew about their plan. “There are things more important than technology.”

“And what is that? Revenge?” X6 asks.

Danse looks uncomfortable, and found out, like he didn’t like the truth himself. “I am not discussing this with the likes of you.” He says looking at both the Courser and the spy. Maybe Danse regrets being so harsh, or maybe it dawns on him that his life and current livelihood as a hidden synth is at the mercy of Courser who just wants to have a little chat with him. In any case, Danse begins to talk. “I think certain technologies shouldn’t exist. With that, even the Brotherhood agrees.” Danse bitterly adds.

  
  


Deacon joins Danse on his way back to the common room, walking next to him almost feels like old times, until the Colonel suddenly stops.

“Tell me John,” Danse begins, “did you do it on purpose?”

“Did I do what on purpose?”

“I mean your new face.” Danse intently studies Deacon’s features.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You look a lot like Knight Rhys.”

“Who?” Deacon acts surprised. “Would it really matter one way or the other?”

“It does matter. To me. It does matter whether you are an irredeemable asshole or just a regular asshole.”

“Ah.” Deacon nods as if they were discussing the weather forecast.

“You know, John, you really helped me back then. I’d even say you saved me, more than once. You weren’t the friend I wanted, but the friend I needed. And I am thankful for that.” Danse explains like he rehearsed that speech countless times in his mind. “But I will not tolerate your egocentric behavior. You keep secrets, you don’t even try to trust people. But then one day you come along with a Courser of all things! Like it was no big deal to trust an Institute abomination! I really thought you cared about our friendship. You just left me in Bunker Hill. You changed your face and dared to intrude my new life. If circumstances hadn’t forced you to reveal yourself to me, I think you never would have never done so.” Danse sighs after saying his piece and adds, “Do you even feel the slightest bit of remorse?”

“What would it change?”

Danse curls his fingers and shakes his head in an attempt to control his boiling up emotion. “Only once I want you to stop plotting and manipulating. Once.”

Deacon stares down the hallway as if there was something to see. “I could tell you a few truths.” He says, “but you wouldn’t believe them.”

“Indulge me in your wisdom.” Danse prompts with his arms folded.

Deacon opens his mouth to speak, but no words find their way out of it. His lips form silent syllables of uncertain words. There’s nothing to say.

There’s only one thing worse than a lie. It’s a truth that goes disbelieved.

“Just as I thought.”

-

Entrance hall, from door to door: 50 foot.

The connecting hallway to the cryo room: 81 foot.

The cryo room: 60 foot, give or take.

Back down the hallway, after 20 foot, the other cryo room: 54 by 54 foot.

The way from the cryo room door to the recreational area: 207 foot.

It’s a small vault in comparison, and Deacon has it all mapped out. The long winding hallway to the overseer’s office, the distance from the entrance of the sleeping area over to the sealed door of the power room.

It’s been a week since Second Day Zero, all systems for basic life support have been restored. Time is long and longing. Danse is putting together a team for another surface mission to install a radio beacon in the hopes of sending and receiving messages. However, the Minutemen don’t want to expose their Colonel to another dose of radiation since he already soaked up enough on his first day of recon.

“I can go. I volunteer as, uh, tribute to the hungering gods of radiation. Or something like that.” Deacon knows he’s not too popular these days, but he expected a little bit more appreciation for his devotion than an angry grunt from the Paladin.

“No way.” The Colonel denies him, “you would only run off with the power armor.”

“Your words wound me.” Deacon plays it easy. “I was going to take the hazmat suit, but anyway.”

Despite Danse’s unhealthy tendency to jump at any opportunity for self sacrifice, his Minutemen try to talk him out of joining the surface team, urging him to think of their General should anything happen to him. However, Danse is the only one with power armor training.

Well, almost the only one with power armor training. There is another person with that skill. Or at least, she is supposed to have that skill. One of the Minutemen suggests asking their former General if she would be willing to lead the mission.

Deacon winces. If she blows her cover, fake Nora has the power to turn the toxic surface world into the preferable option compared to staying in the vault. What little trust Danse has in the spy and the shadow, it would quickly turn into hostility if he found out the person vouching for them was an imposter.

  
“Sure.” She says when presented with the idea, obviously nervous but determined to make up for her past shortcoming when she caused the outage. 

“Nora, you will be carrying the radio beacon.” Danse points at a head-high device in the middle of the entrance hall and explains that it will be him to join her in a hazmat suit and install the device, despite all protest of his Minutemen.

With a hiss, the pneumatics of the power armor open.

Fake Nora nods and steps up to the suit. She’s gnawing on her lips, then takes a deep breath and almost hurls herself into it.

Deacon watches it all. Watches as she struggles to seal the suit, and when she finally does, watches her breath hitch before she hyperventilates and Danse has to free her from the claustrophobic suit. Watches her cry in a corner and Danse trying to console her. 

She keeps apologizing between sobs, he’s holding her in his understanding arms , rationalizing that it was a crazy few months in a long, crazy year.

Danse tries to shoo off Deacon with a grim look, but he has to see this.

“I’m sorry…” she manages to find her voice, “I am not the person you used to know.”

Danse shakes his head. “You’ve been through hell and back. I am so sorry I asked you to do this.”

“No.” She insists, her voice gaining firmness now. “I am not Nora, I am a lousy synth copy.”

-

Exactly 300 and 2 foot, from the entrance hall along the winding corridors, ignoring the sealed door to the power room, crossing the recreational area to the far wall behind the beds. That’s the farthest stroll one can take in the vault without walking any path twice.

Then all the way back back back, taking a new turn to the decontamination chamber. There’s X6, ever optimizing the system. Deacon joins him in his usual spot.

“Have you heard?” Deacon begins.

The shadow answers with an attentive silence.

“She told Danse she’s an imposter.”

X6 looks at him. “You seem quite composed about this.”

“He didn’t believe her. Said she was stressed and traumatized.”

“Convenient.”

“Yeah.” Deacon idly plays with some tools. “I’ll join Danse later on the surface team. Maybe things above have blown over and we’re finally getting outta here.”

X6 doesn’t react.

“What’s your plan once you’re out?” Deacon asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither.”

  
  


Danse steps into the power armor, Deacon slips into the hazmat suit. Blaring sirens announce tons of steel sliding to the side, closing again behind them. They step on the platform, still dusty from the last expedition, and ride the elevator up to the surface.

A few grey clouds are hanging low in the afternoon sky interspersed with a little bit of blue peeking through here and there. It could be any lousy day in the spring, but the clicking of their Geiger counter tells them it’s an irradiated lousy day in the spring.

Danse is steadying the radio transmitter until Deacon has secured it steadily on the ground. A flick of a button, and the heavy lead battery is supplying the equipment with energy. Through the bulky helmet of the hazmat suit, Deacon is listening for any signals from the com while manually adjusting the dish.

“Turn it to a south-eastern direction.” Danse orders but his tone lacks any edge.

Deacon turns the dish to hear more of the same static.

“Let me do it.” Danse takes the speaker from Deacon’s hand, and listens and adjusts the dish and listens. Eventually, Danse seems to come to the same conclusion.

A whole lot of nothing out there.

Somewhere out there, far off south east, the Castle is resting at the shores of the Commonwealth. “Interference is still high.” Deacon explains. “Just because we don’t get reception doesn’t mean nobody’s out there.” 

“Spare me your sympathies.” Danse adjusts the dish yet again, listens.

It’s hard to tell because of the power armor the Colonel is wearing, but Deacon can tell when he suddenly freezes and presses the speaker even closer to his helmet.

As it turns out, there’s only one signal live in the Commonwealth, crystal clear repeating over and over again, sent by nobody else but the Institute.

  
  


The rumbling motion as the platform carries them back down, the flashing lights and the deafening sound of the siren, the low vibration on the floor as tons of steel slide to the side and open the vault. Nothing of it feels real.

They step into the decontamination chamber, with a hiss all irradiated particles get sucked from their armor and gear. The sound stops but it seems to linger in Deacon’s ear until he hears Danse’s voice.

“We have to tell them.” He says.

  
  


X6 is waiting for them when they exit the chamber. Danse shoots him all kinds of glances ranging from hostility to defeatism when he steps out of the power armor and guides his Minutemen over to the recreational room. Deacon stays behind with the Courser, silently handing him a holotape with the recorded message.

Deacon can’t put into words the emotions X6 is displaying when they listen to the tape in the overseer’s office. The Courser seems to stop breathing, to stop living, frozen like a marble statue of a long forgotten kingdom.

“People of the Commonwealth.

All we asked of you was not to interfere with Institute operations. We asked you to leave mankind’s future in the safe hands of our superior technology.

You chose to threaten this future. Now you have to suffer the consequences.

The weapons you wanted to use for our destruction are no more. Let their irradiation be your constant reminder that the Institute has seized up your worth, and you have disappointed.

There is no future apart from the Institute.

People of the Commonwealth---”

With an awful calmness, the Courser gets up and leaves the room, unresponsive to Deacon’s worried questions. Deacon follows him to the entrance hall, where X6 pushes him away when he tries to stop him from putting on the hazmat suit. The blaring sirens of the opening vault door draw agitated Minutemen to the entrance, they try to argue with the Courser, stop him, but are all shoved away. The Courser’s march towards the elevator is only stopped when Danse is blocking his path in full power armor.

“You’re not leaving until I get answers from you.” Danse bellows at him through the sirens, grabbing X6 by the arm. “You were the one telling the Institute about the warheads! You stole the documents in the Castle! It was all you!”

X6 might be superhumanly strong, but not stronger than a power armor. Danse’s grip is iron, threatening to tear the hazmat suit and break the Courser’s arm.

“I have to know.”

The sirens stop and the voice of X6 travels far.

“I have to know if it’s true.”

  
  


When Danse and X6 return from the surface a few minutes later, the Courser is on shaky feet, stumbling through the vault gate. He rips the helmet from his head and pukes on the floor.

“Make sure he properly decontaminates.” Danse orders in passing.

Even long after the procedure is completed, X6 doesn’t leave the decontamination chamber, cowering on the floor and staring at the wall. The Courser seems lost like a vanishing shadow in sharp light.

It takes a while before he acknowledges Deacon sitting next to him, Danse already long gone. 

“There must have been people who objected.” The voice of X6 is thin and husky. “Not everyone in the Institute would betray our ideals. The repopulation of the surface. Never to repeat the mistakes of the past. Not everyone could have agreed to--” He turns to Deacon. “Not everyone in the Institute could have agreed to this. They couldn’t-” He tries to continue but ends up retching.

“Some very bad radiation poisoning you got there.” Deacon says and rubs the back of X6 until he stops shivering.

  
  


“I need to wash”, X6 stumbles to his feet, Deacon trying his best to steady him.

The small lavatory behind the overseer's office is empty. Arriving there, X6 seems confused. “Here you go.” Deacon hands him the bar of soap and sits down around the corner to grant the shadow some privacy without leaving him completely.

When the water starts, it’s almost as if Deacon can feel the pattering through the wall separating him and X6 on the other side.

Maybe, if Deacon hadn’t meddled with the Minutemen’s plans, maybe the Institute wouldn’t be around anymore, maybe nuclear warheads would’ve been less dangerous in the Brotherhood’s hands than dispersed all over the Commonwealth. Maybe Deacon had been the naive one and now everyone has to pay the price for that.

The water stops running and X6 steps into the room, dripping wet. His posture upright and his face impassive like usual, he seems strengthened somehow, carrying the nudity like a given.

“I thought the Institute being gone was the worst thing that could happen.” X6 begins. “Now I realize it is worse seeing them succumb to this. There must be something worth saving in the Institute. Or someone. I will find those and protect them.” He concludes and addresses Deacon. “I am fine with you destroying the rest.”

Deacon extends his arm for X6 to pull him up. Once on eye level, he smirks at his shadow. “Are you suggesting a deal? Count me in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the stars are benevolent, this isn't the end of it. (i already have the next part in planning)  
> thanks for reading, shoot me a comment, my self-isolating me would love that

**Author's Note:**

> ahoi! I hope you liked it, and I hope you like X6 and Deacon as much as I do cuz there will be way more. lemme know what u think, and lemme know if ur interested in beta'ing, i will be eternally grateful and gladly beta your own writing or bribe you with quality fanart lol


End file.
